Hide A Sin
by wzlwmn
Summary: Several months after his mother's death, her firstborn, Gaston de Chagny, receives a trunk of her mementoes. Thus he embarks on a quest to answer the questions the trunk raises.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Sadly, I own nothing of any version of Phantom of the Opera. Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Weber, et al do.

-0-0-0-0-

"Gaston, forgive him. Promise."

My mother's last words to me were about my father. Not the man I called 'Father'. Not the one who raised me and loved me in his fashion. Not the one who gave me my name and my fortune; the one who gave me my face.

She wasn't even forty one when she died. She never really looked ill; consumption only rendered her beauty more haunting and delicate. Everyone expected her to just rise from her bed and return to life.

I have two flawlessly beautiful younger siblings. No one was permitted to treat me any differently than Philippe and Madelaine when we were growing up. Our education, our entertainments, our friends–all identical, except for the official Chagny functions. At such times, it was just Philippe and Madelaine; Gaston went for a special outing, or a quiet night in his room. No one ever said it was because of the way I look; my Mother would not have tolerated it. Yet, for some reason I couldn't understand, she permitted Father to have me locked away and present Philippe as the little vicomte. I never blamed her, for she so obviously adored me; I never saw shame in her eyes when she looked at me. I always felt it was me and Mother against the rest of the family, and that any humiliation I suffered was the result of a battle Mother had been unable to win on my behalf.

After Mother was buried, I left my father and siblings alone. They were grieving, but so was I. My advocate and protector was gone; the only woman who could ever love me.

I have a little treed patch at the back of the property, a fine house, servants, everything the firstborn Chagny would expect, except the glowing complexion, captivating eyes; you see my point. To tell the truth, they didn't put me out; I escaped from the main house when I was sixteen. At any rate, I was surprised to see Father at my door a few months after Mother was gone. I helped him in with the trunk he was hauling and poured us some wine. We can be civil. To be fair again, I was the one who created the distance between myself and my family. I got tired of them pretending that I was just as blond and beautiful as everyone else, tired of them feeling guilty for being repulsed.

"How are you, Father?"

"Oh, alright," he shrugged. "Lonely," he admitted, after a moment.

I looked out the window to give him a minute. I envy him his devotion to her. I'll never have that.

"How are you, Gaston?"

I nodded brusquely.

Father placed his hand on the trunk, patted it the way I'd seen him pat Mother's hand. "Gaston, this…is yours. Mother put some things aside from her time at the Opera…" his voice quavered.

Mother's time at the Opera; yes, we knew she had been there when she and Father rediscovered each other, but it wasn't discussed. The assumption among us children was that it was the unsuitability of a singer becoming a comtesse that made it a subject to be avoided.

"Thank you."

"I…don't know precisely what is in here, but I know generally what it's about. I'll try to help you in any way I can, after you've…looked at it." He rose to leave. "I hope you know that you will always have a home here."

"I do." What a peculiar thing to say. I shrugged; maybe it was his way of apologizing for being disappointed in me.

I finished the bottle of wine and stared at the trunk until I was just drunk enough to feel mean. Then I was ready to open it.

I knew there had been a fire at the Opera, and the overwhelming smell when I opened the trunk was of smoke.

Two small brass figures: a scorpion and a cricket.  
A monkey music box; it still played.  
Charred pages of musical scores done in red ink stirred my interest immediately, having inherited my love of music from Mother. Reading what I could of the scores, they were remarkable; soaring, passionate, strange music.  
A man's black evening cloak; a single glove.  
Dried roses, single buds tied with a black ribbon; dozens of them.  
A heavy brass seal in the shape of a death's head.  
Sketches of dresses–costumes?  
Watercolors of sets and stagings. The only figure detailed enough to recognize in any of them was that of my mother as a young woman.  
A prayer book.  
A thin gold ring wrapped in a handkerchief monogrammed 'E'.  
An inlaid wooden box, perhaps of Oriental design, containing fragments of white porcelain wrapped in a scrap of velvet.  
Several charred wood figures, like children's dolls, brightly painted in elaborate costumes. The heads could be interchanged among them.  
Opera programmes.  
A sooty dress that may have been white at one time.  
Shakespeare's Sonnets, inscribed 'For my muse. E.' in the same red-ink scrawl.  
Several small cards, also in red ink:  
'Treachery, Christine! Explain yourself, if you can. E.'  
'Christine, I can be good, just love me. E.'  
'Forgive me. Please come. E.'  
Nothing else but newspaper clippings about the fire at the Opera, my Uncle's death, my parent's wedding, my birth announcement. I sat back and read them as I got drunker. Ultimately, the entire incident at the Opera House was blamed upon the mysterious Phantom of the Opera, who was never found, of course. It made a marvelous ghost story; nothing more.

I closed the trunk, disappointed. Apparently Mother had spent her married life dreaming of past glories from her brief career and a melodramatic romance she'd managed to wedge in between Raoul the boy and Raoul the man. I had no idea what it all had to do with me; even less why Father would have thought it was so important. I supposed she'd just wanted her treasured firstborn to have her precious junk…and he was fulfilling a last request. I felt a pang of sympathy for Father. How much did he know about 'E.'? How would he feel to know that twenty two years later this man was still so much in her thoughts, after the beautiful life he'd tried to give her?

It was unnerving and strange thinking of Mother as an inconstant wife, if only in her secret collection of mementoes. Even the inclusion of Philippe and Madelaine's birth announcements would have softened the edges of my discomfort.

I wasn't ready to sleep yet, so I rode into the city for the finest female companionship the Chagny fortune could buy. What is it they say: when you're rich, your jokes are funny, you're handsome, and you can sing. Actually, I do have a beautiful singing voice–but the money helps with the rest.

-0-0-0-0-

When I returned home early the following afternoon, Father was puttering unconvincingly with two spaniels close to my retreat. Never overly subtle, he approached too directly to have been doing anything other than watching and waiting for me.

I left the door open behind me without waiting and pushed ahead to drop my debauched carcass onto the bed. The stupid spaniels joined me, muddy paws and all, stubs wriggling. Father's concern drained into his habitual disappointment as he watched me from the doorway. I likely looked no worse than usual, but I fairly reeked of the two activities which had occupied my time since he'd seen me last. I'm sure I delighted the dogs.

"You're…alright, then?" he confirmed.

"Fine, fine. Screaming for sleep," I waved him away.

"You looked in Mother's trunk?"

"Yes. Junk, junk, junk!" I sang, dismissively.

My father's shock and anger flared impressively, but, ever Raoul, he calmed himself so quickly that it might have been my drunken imagination. "Gaston…" he sighed with familiar resignation. "It isn't junk." He shook his head and moved off, and I was gone before he shut the door behind him.

-0-0-0-0-

"Get up, you ugly bastard! The night is half over!" Rene pressed a bottle into my hand as he dragged me upright.

Victor peered out the window toward the main house. "Is your sister at home?"

"Only to human males," I assured him as I stirred to life. "Move, I need a piss." Ahhh, one of life's simplest pleasures.

"She'd be the luckiest woman alive!" Victor protested. "I'd treat her impeccably!"

"We've all seen how you do that," Rene snickered.

"Get your goddamn foot off, Rene, or I'll run you through!" I spat. He was sprawled in a chair using Mother's trunk for a footrest.

"Steady…what's in it anyway?"

"Mother's stuff."

"Oh. Sorry."

Ignoring him, I pressed through to the cupboard. We needed something on our stomachs to hold us awhile; food would not be the priority when we got to Paris. "What is the plan tonight anyway?" I asked, tossing bread and cheese around.

"Thought we'd go back to Madame Zizou's," Rene winked.

"Mignonette is in loooooove," Victor crooned. "You changed her life, at least that's what I heard."

"Hah. She was screaming for mercy. Once they meet the dragon, they're ruined forever." I sneered. "Pass the pepper." On a whim, I said, "Let's broaden our minds first, let's go to the theater."

"Theater girls are niiiiice," Victor remarked, unthinking, his normal state. I popped him lightly with the bottle but it caught his brow just right and made it bleed.

"Victor, you dolt," Rene patched him up and we were off.

It was surreal to sit in the audience at the Opera Populaire and picture Mother on that stage. I understood that it was rebuilt as closely as possible to the way it had been before the fire, so I knew I was seeing what my parents had seen when they re-met and fell in love. I just couldn't picture either of them in this world.

The girls in the ballet were all enticing; some of them looked barely older than Madelaine. My friends were all in favor of trying our luck backstage, but I wasn't in the mood for the staring, possible fainting, and general discomfort that goes with me trying to make a connection in an unfamiliar place. Victor was crushed that he might actually have to avail himself of a girl of legal age, but we returned to Zizou's.

"Oooooh, Gaston!" Mignonette was particularly effusive, but I'm a good tipper.

"Hello, Sweetheart, I just couldn't get enough of you." I said I was ugly. I didn't say I couldn't be charming. She's an appealing little whore, and it makes a pleasant fiction.

-0-0-0-0-

"Gaston, tea…"

I had no recollection of coming home, but it was my own bed, and my own sweet little sister plying me with something non-alcoholic. I scooted up to half-sitting and accepted the tea. Madelaine was blushing fiercely; she had no frame of reference for sleeping naked.

"Toss me that shirt, will you, Lili?" She complied gratefully. I have no idea why we've always called her Lili. I sipped tea and enjoyed her fresh, sunny presence. Beauty and the Beast.

"I miss you, Gaston. Why don't you ever come to the big house?"

"No reason," I shrugged. "This is my home. You know you can come anytime," I reminded her gently.

"Father said it's inevitable you will go your own way now. You aren't going to leave, are you?"

"No, Lili, where would I go?"

"I don't know. Sometimes it seems you don't like us," she worried.

"I will always love you, Lili," I emphasized.

We sat for some quiet minutes. Suddenly I remembered the trunk. "Oh, hey," I pointed, "Father gave me that, from Mother. It's a bunch of her theater mementoes, do you want to see?"

"If you don't mind, she gave it to you."

I shrugged, "It's just old Opera junk. Look." I slipped my trousers on and opened the trunk. I handed Lili the monkey music box and wound it up. As the tune repeated, I was surprised that she sang along.

"Masquerade,  
Paper faces on parade…"

She saw the question on my face. "Lili, you know the song?"

"Mm. Mother used to sing it to us."

"Not to me. Sing it."

She waited for the starting point to come around.

"Masquerade,  
Paper faces on parade  
Hide your face  
So the world will never find you–" eyes wide, she covered her mouth with her hand like a child caught swearing.

"Gaston, I'm sorry!"

"Well, we know why she didn't sing it to me, eh?" I cracked. "Here, what else, a bunch of music; dried roses, these should be illegal; why do women keep these?"

"Pretty box," Lili noticed. I handed it to her.

As she sat and opened the box, I slipped the notes from E. into my pocket. I was still ambivalent about learning of Mother's romance; I didn't want to reveal it to Lili. Fifteen, very sheltered; it was best if she held to the unsullied story of Christine and Raoul, childhood sweethearts, for the time being.

"A piece missing," Lili said softly.

"Hm?" I looked at the black velvet she'd spread across her lap. She'd assembled the broken pieces of white porcelain into a mask. She pointed to a small triangular space next to the eye.

"Just the one piece missing, here."

That mask bothered me and I didn't know why. I felt as if it was staring up at me, that vacant white face, demanding something of me, nagging at me. I gathered the pieces up in the velvet and shoved them back in the box.

"I'm sorry, Gaston."

"Don't be so sensitive, Lili! Stop apologizing!"

"I wish you'd stop being so angry," she sighed.

"I miss Mother, do you see?" I said, exasperated. Things were bubbling inside me that I'd kept submerged for months.

"I do, too, Gaston, we all do," she said gently.

"It's different, Lili. You'll always have someone. Who do I have now?"

"Me. I'm still here," she promised, slipping slender arms around me.

I shrugged her off and avoided her wounded face. "Until you marry a perfect man and have perfect babies and live a perfect life!"

"Alright, Gaston, I'm going. I can't bear it when you get like this," Lili surrendered.

-0-0-0-0-

My idiot friends wanted to return to the Opera to learn if ballerinas are truly as supple as they look. This suited me. I was in a black mood and happy to do without any company. My body appreciated the real food I took and a chance to sleep more than two hours at a time in a comfortable bed. I felt much better in the morning and decided another day of hibernation would be good. I put my feet up with Mother's book of the Sonnets.

Whoever E. was, he was certainly literate and searingly romantic to make such a gift to a woman. I couldn't picture my father wading through the Sonnets. Not that he's stupid; he appreciates good music and fine art. He's just not very imaginative; he's steady and dependable, not an artist. This E.–the book, the notes, and if the red ink could be believed, the music–was the antithesis of my father. I reviewed the music again, wanting to make the connection between E.'s signed notes and the scores. The handwriting could have been the same, but it was smaller and more scribbled on the scores. It was easier to see that the scribbles in pencil on the sketches and watercolors belonged to the same hand. The only connection to E. that I could make definitively was the red ink, and anyone in the world can write in red.

I laughed when I looked up and discovered I was losing the light. I'd spent the whole day in Mother's treasure chest. I wound up her music box and fell asleep before it finished playing.

I awoke in a marvelous mood, in spite of the stupid spaniels barking and tearing me from a delectable dream of Mignonette. After breakfast, I went back into the trunk to review all the newspaper clippings. I reread a clipping announcing my parents' small, private wedding, a few months after they ran from the burning theater together. As I glanced at my birth announcement, I was struck by the dates for the first time. I was one of those six-month first pregnancies, ha-ha. My first thought was how impressed I was with Raoul, actually. And Mother was growing more full of surprises with each passing day.

Next I turned to the news accounts of the Opera House: the fire, the reconstruction and reopening, a collection of articles full of wild speculation about the Opera Ghost–what a marvelous way to sell tickets. Several details about the night of the fire pulled at me. It was noted that all eyewitness accounts of the Phantom agreed that he was 'horrifying'. It seems that he took Piangi's place at the climax of the performance, and sang a 'scandalous' duet with my mother. Scandalous? The newspaper account continued that after the Phantom: "…was unmasked, the audience screamed in horror. The fiend then released the chandelier with an inhuman cry. As it crashed onto the stage below, the monster made his escape by falling through a trapdoor and into the dungeons of the burning Opera House with the terrified Miss Daae in his clutches." It read like a penny dreadful.

The terrified Miss Daae in his clutches? I thought she and Father escaped together. You can't believe these accounts, Gaston. They adored the idea of the ingénue falling through the floor with 'the fiend' as the theater burns.

Enough of that; I was rejuvenated and ready for Paris again. I decided to have a bath and go in search of my idiot friends. On my way to the stable, I noticed a promising new serving girl in the kitchen garden. I ducked out to collect a handful of peonies and then made my way around the garden to approach her directly. One does not sneak up on a lady–of any kind--with a face like mine. I have it all worked out: approach fully visible, no eye contact or smile; it looks like a grimace. Once you're certain you've been seen, (if she does not scream, faint, or run) turn to offer her an oblique view, focus your eyes at about the level of her chin, put a smile in your voice and be gallant–flowers are ideal for that.

No screaming, no fainting, no running; good.

"Good afternoon," I proffered the flowers.

"Thank you, Monsieur Gaston," blush, slight curtsey, nervous.

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle, we cannot have met…I would have remembered."

"No, but I know you live back here, and…"

"Ah. But still you hold me at a disadvantage…"

Another little curtsey. "I am Lucie, Mon–"

"Please…Gaston. We are likely nearly the same age. 'Monsieur' is my father."

She smiled, blushed shyly. "I can't…"

"But there's no one here. You don't think I'll tell, hm?"

Lucie sniffed the peonies and fluttered her eyes a little. She had magnificent breasts from where I was. I decided it would be alright to kiss her hand as I took my leave.

"Come visit some time, Lucie. Don't be shy."

-0-0-0-0-

I caught up with Rene at Zizou's. Victor would not be joining us. He was in love, it seemed, with a little dancer at the Opera; the first woman he'd not had to pay to perform a delightful, unspeakable act upon him. We muddled through without Victor sufficiently that I didn't stagger home for three days. When I slept, I was bothered by disjointed dreams of my mother as a girl at the Opera, and fire. Nothing normally disturbs my sleep, so I knew that the contents of Mother's trunk were working on me; though I wasn't conscious of it.

I was wicked parched when I awoke, so I sent for lemonade in quantity and dug back in to the trunk. I read the clippings again and found myself getting curiously irritated. I decided to go to the big house for supper and find out what Father knew.


	2. Chapter 2

"Gaston! Where've you been?" My brother, Philippe, Vicomte de Chagny, is as much like a spaniel dog as any human could be. He hasn't got a bad bone in him. I can almost see my father cringe when we embrace, as if my debauched habits can be caught by touch.

"Drinking and shagging."

Philippe pinked and laughed nervously.

"Whenever you're ready…", I whispered. I long for Philippe to lose his virginity. Women will be a revelation to him.

Lili came into my arms and I kissed her forehead.

"Are you staying to supper?"

"Mm."

"Oh, wonderful!"

Mother's absence was palpable at the table. I don't know how they can dine there daily; I couldn't. Father and Lili sensed it, and struggled to keep the conversation going. The one bright spot in the meal was my lovely Lucie assisting with the service. I noticed Philippe working hard not to notice her. No no, Brother Dear, you must walk before you can run, and you are most definitely a toddler. Mademoiselle Lucie requires a firm but gentle, experienced hand.

Eventually Lili excused herself and kissed us goodnight.

"Come again soon, Gaston."

I nodded. I don't like to lie to her.

"Gaston, come for a ride!" Philippe urged.

"Later, Philippe--I want to talk with Father for a moment."

"Come get me?"

"Yes, I will."

I followed Father into the drawing room. He poured us cognac while I helped myself to a cigar. He doesn't smoke, but no proper gentleman would fail to have cigars on offer for his guests. Or his prodigal son.

"Mother would say you'll ruin your voice," he smiled indulgently.

"I suppose I'll have to fall back on my looks."

He sighed. I don't know why I'm perverse like that; I know those remarks hurt him.

"I went through Mother's things again."

He nodded.

"There were clippings, of the fire, the Opera Ghost, your wedding, my birth announcement. By the way, I never knew I was premature."

If I'd provoked my father, he gave no sign of it. He met my gaze with the eyes of a man who's got nothing to be ashamed of. Good for you, Raoul; own your wild youth!

"You have questions?" he asked softly.

"Yes, it's nothing really, I mean, little things. The paper said that the night of the fire, the Opera Ghost–Phantom–escaped through a trapdoor with Mother. I thought you and Mother left the theater together that night."

"We did leave together, later."

"So the paper is over dramatizing."

"I don't know about that. I'd have to read it," he chuckled.

"But the Phantom didn't abduct her."

"He did take her down with him. I went after them and brought her back."

"Did you have to fight him?"

"No, nothing so heroic, son."

"Tell me," I demanded. Softening, I added, "Will you?"

My father looked at me for a long minute. I couldn't read his face at all. Now, I think he wanted to look at me as his son for perhaps the final time.

"When I got down there, I saw your mother. She was…upset. She shouted at me to leave her and escape. She was afraid for my safety," he mused. "Little bit of a thing that she was, worried for me. So: the Phantom caught me, bound me, and told Mother that he would kill me unless she consented to remain with him, as his wife."

"His wife? He knew her?"

"Oh,yes, he knew her." He sounded very sad.

"So it wasn't…I thought it was just circumstances, that she just happened to be the unfortunate girl that was there at the time."

"No. It was Christine he was after."

I drained my cognac. This was nothing like I'd imagined. I'd always believed she was just a young singer in the wrong place when this Opera madman broke loose. But the Phantom knew her, took her deliberately, tried to force her into marriage?

Father continued. "Remember she was in the school there, Gaston. The Opera Ghost was an extremely eccentric character, but he seemed to be a relatively benign presence for quite some time. For years before I became involved with the Opera–I don't know how long--he sent endless notes to the management about how things should be run down to the slightest detail; demanded a salary; insisted on Box Five being left vacant for his use. It was quite maddening to the managers, but harmless. There were all sorts of fantastic stories that grew up around him, of course. He watched over the Opera; he considered it his and knew everything that went on. Nothing escaped him. Naturally, at some point, he heard Mother's voice, and he took an interest in her."

"He fell in love with her voice?" I guessed. My father explained it all so matter-of-factly; as if he'd lived with the story so long that he'd become inured to how bizarre it was.

"I didn't know him. I certainly can't speak for him," Father shrugged. "He was…alone. Lonely."

Suddenly I flushed with pride for the dashing young Raoul, rescuing his beloved from an obsessed madman.

"And you saved her from him!"

"Oh, glory, no," he laughed oddly and ran his hands over his face. When he looked up at me again, I saw the faintest traces of tears he'd wiped away. "You're such a romantic, Gaston."

"No I'm not," I grumbled.

"I told you it was nothing heroic, at least not on my part," Father admitted. "Mother saved me: she agreed to marry him, in spite of my protests, and the Phantom released us both."

"Released you! Why?"

"There is only one man who can answer that."

I reviewed the tale in stunned silence. Father appeared to be lost in bittersweet thoughts of his own.

"Whatever happened to the Phantom?" I asked finally.

Father seemed to be pulled from a dream.

"I don't know. So far as I know, he was not heard from again."

I rose to leave.

"Those are all your questions?" Father seemed almost surprised.

"Right now," I nodded. "Thank you."

He smiled. I thought briefly of embracing him. I think he would have appreciated it, and I felt as though I wanted to, but I didn't.

-0-0-0-0-

I found Philippe outside cleaning a gun. It was just turning dusk.

"Want to ride?"

"No, I'll sit here and watch you polish your tool…"

"You're dreadful, Gaston."

"Mm."

"Gaston," he wiggled over confidentially. "That serving girl, you noticed her."

"Plump little brunette, yes, I noticed."

"She's not plump!"

"I said plump, not fat. Plump like a pigeon is not a bad thing, Philippe. One wants a bit of padding here and there, and something to grab onto," I smiled. If he wouldn't blush so furiously, I wouldn't tease him so mercilessly.

"Don't speak of Lucie that way…I may love her," he confessed. As I studied his open face, I realized that such idealism can only survive in a pretty package. I turned cynical the first time I toddled up to a mirror. The beautiful have no concept of the extent of their luxuries; the ugly carry only what they must. Alright, I'll play the wise older brother, but gently and kindly; let him keep the illusion awhile longer.

"Philippe, you're the Vicomte de Chagny; a servant girl is not for you. You must breed noble babies, remember, with a pedigree longer than the spaniels'."

"Father will understand."

"He will not understand anything for a good while yet. You're too young to be thinking seriously about any girl."

"You make me sound like an infant. I know a little something, Gaston." he puffed up defensively.

"Forgive me, Monsieur Don Juan. So, Man of the World, have you yet spoken to your little dove? Does she know how you adore her?" I could not resist whispering into his ear. "Have you whispered what you long to do?"

"Stop it, I said!" he pinked again. "I wanted to ask you…"

"Ask Father," I snapped, feeling disgusted all of a sudden. "He's…more like you."

"Gaston! Help me!" he insisted. "I know she's noticed me. She smiles at me, but I don't know what to say."

"Pick some flowers. Say it's a beautiful day. Ask her about herself. Admire something about her–tell her she has magnificent breasts."

Philippe leapt up, outraged. "You take that back, Gaston!"

I raised my hands in surrender, trying to make light of it. "I was joking, Philippe, only joking."

"No you weren't! Take it back!" He was still clenching his fists in fury.

"For god's sake, Philippe, she's not your fiancée, she's a servant girl!"

"Take it back!" he demanded again.

"Pardon me, Philippe. I meant no insult to your Lucie," I said sincerely.

"You'd better leave her alone, Gaston," he dropped to the bench again, pouting.

"Me?"

"I know you were looking at her."

"Don't be ridiculous. I would look at a goat if you put it in skirts. Philippe, how would I compete with you for any girl? Hm?" I asked harmlessly.

Romeo returned to cleaning his gun sullenly.

"I have to pay for everything I get," I reminded him.

I got a shrug in reply.

"Philippe, come to Zizou's with me. It would help your confidence around Lucie, honestly."

"I don't want to, I've told you a dozen times."

"Women don't like innocent men. They pretend to be scandalized, and I'm not saying you have to be a complete satyr like me, but women like a man who knows what he is doing around them. Even if they're not absolutely sure they want him to do it."

Philippe huffed doubtfully.

"They're nice girls at Zizou's; clean, pretty, friendly. They'll be good to Gaston's little brother...your life will change, I promise," I sang.

"I'll think on it," he grumbled. That was as close to a 'yes' as I was likely to get, and I felt victorious.

"Good!" I slapped his knee as I rose. "Meanwhile, you'll pick flowers, and discuss the weather, and admire how her hair shines in the sunlight. Find a way to kiss her hand. Once you've made that first contact, it is difficult for her to object later when you–"

"I am not trying to seduce her, Gaston," he replied primly.

"You are hopeless," I called, trotting away. "If you don't, someone else will!"

-0-0-0-0-

I lay in bed and thought about mother being abducted by a lunatic recluse who'd murdered several men, terrified everyone associated with the opera, and just accomplished the destruction of the Opera House–her only home since she was orphaned. I imagined how terrified she must've been at the thought of spending her life with a madman; but she'd agreed to do it to save my father.

My father…suddenly it struck me that I'd've been conceived around that time. She wouldn't have known I was inside her, certainly, but some say that the child can be marked by a terrible fright to the mother.

When I was small, I asked Mother why I looked different; she said, "Because it's the way God made you." Of course that was expected to make it alright, because it demonstrated that I was not a horrible mistake. I remember that I wanted to ask her what I'd done to make God so angry that he'd made me the way he did, but I never asked.

As I got older I wasted no more time speculating on the cause of my defect. Understanding didn't help me to face myself or anyone else. My insight that Mother's terror of her fiendish abductor had damaged me was the closest I'd ever come to an explanation. It hit me violently. I was sick; I moaned; I knelt on the floor beside Mother's trunk and rocked myself as she used to rock me. I would have given anything for her arms around me. I think I grieved everything: Mother, my face, my life–the one I had, and the one I wouldn't have. I know that when I was finally finished, nothing remained inside me. I crawled back to my bed and lay down with no expectation of ever waking again. I truly thought I would die, and I didn't care in the least.

I awoke; after a fashion. I pissed, drank, and fell back into bed. When I wasn't sleeping, I was just lying there, not thinking of anything. Not food, not wine, not women. If the deprivation of feminine charms couldn't drive me from my bed, believe me: it was damned hopeless.

Eventually, the fair Lucie came to my aid. I heard a rap, rap on my bedroom door and a sweet voice:

"Monsieur Gaston? Pardon me?"

Obviously I was dead and by a colossal mistake, in heaven. Little Lucie's head popped around the door. Heaven.

"Monsieur Gaston, I'm sorry, please excuse me. Are you ill?"

Not anymore, Sweetheart. "Ah, yes, Lucie, I have been…" One advantage of being me is I don't have to worry about how I look when a luscious dumpling appears at my bedroom door. Lucie's breasts, bottom, thighs; the entire package down to her tempting little toes popped around the door. Undoubtedly heaven.

"Yes, the food has been piling up uneaten, Monsieur. I was beginning to worry."

Oh god; worry--about me? Impossible. "What a sweet thing to say, Lucie."

"Is there anything I can do for you, Monsieur Gaston?"

Heh heh. "Yes, Lucie; for a start you can call me 'Gaston', remember? Now, now, before you protest, don't you think I should be on a first-name basis with my guardian angel?"

Lucie has a musical laugh. She was doing well; giving the illusion of looking at me by glancing at my chin from time to time.

"I'm no angel!"

"Mm, why not let me be the judge of that? You're pretty enough to be an angel."

"No, M–Gaston. Um, you must be hungry?"

"Ravenous," said the Big Bad Wolf.

Lucie was happy to keep me company while I ate. While she perched on a chair nearby, I was able to examine her ankles; pretty. Not the most delicate I'd seen, but strong legs have their virtues. I was just beginning to wonder what might be on for dessert when I heard Philippe demanding "Take that back!" Damn brotherly feelings to hell and England.

"Lucie, that was wonderful, and I'm so grateful for your concern. But now you must go, and please don't return, hm?"

My little sparrow was astounded, even frightened. She could not guess what she had done wrong.

"It would be so simple for you to utterly captivate me, dear Lucie, but alas, you've already captured my brother's heart. Surely you've noticed."

"He is very sweet, the vicomte, but so shy! Every time he sees me, he blushes scarlet!" she confessed. Her eyes were shining as they might if she was describing…an adorable puppy.

"He is shy…he is much like our father was in his youth. He holds you in the highest esteem, I assure you. So you see, as much as I would like it to be otherwise, the situation is impossible."

In the perverse nature of things, I believe that this display of chivalry, unique in my lifetime and intended to drive her into the uncorrupted embrace of Philippe, actually endeared me to Lucie.

It also drove me from my bed with a throbbing surprise for Mignonette.


	3. Chapter 3

Life never returned completely to normal for me after that. I did the same things as before–and enjoyed them as much as ever, but in my quiet moments I always returned to that fiery night at the Opera House. I felt in my heart that it was that night that had made me who and what I was; I was as sure of it as I was of anything. I wished Mother had told me whatever it was she wanted me to know–because no matter what I'd learned so far, I knew I had not learned what she wanted me to know yet. I didn't ask anything further of Father, because I didn't have any questions that I could put words to.

I saw Lucie several times over the next few months. I'd present her with a single flower and flirt politely--the way one does with a brother's sweetheart. Each time I'd ask how my brother was treating her, I received the same answer: "The vicomte is very sweet." I would have preferred a more animated response. Lucie was pleasant to talk with, but we never spoke except in the kitchen garden. I ignored her in the big house or anywhere I thought Philippe might see.

-0-0-0-0-

I spent much of the Christmas holiday at the big house. It was a dismal holiday, and it was good to have Lili nearby. Father looked at a loss without Mother, but he was so moved by my presence whenever I came that it embarrassed me. Six months on from our first conversation about Lucie, Philippe was still hopelessly infatuated with her. He reported proudly on his progress. He'd been speaking to her regularly since October. He'd made her a Christmas gift of a silver hairbrush and mirror set, and he'd gotten a kiss for his trouble. They'd met out in the cold once since then for more kisses. Egads; another six months and he'd be fondling those breasts. What I couldn't have accomplished in six months with that little dumpling.

I brought Philippe to Zizou's for a special New Year's. He lost his virtue to a luscious Creole from America. Infuriatingly energized by the experience, he was compelled to relate it to me in excruciating detail on the ride home. Hung over and depleted as I was, I made a mental note to sample Honey's charms first hand as soon as possible.

-0-0-0-0-

In February it rained buckets for a week. It did nothing for my mood to be cooped up in my retreat with nothing to do but think about things, abuse myself and drink. After five days of that, I walked outside and got soaked just to clear my head of fires and Phantoms. Returning home, I spotted Philippe and Lucie in a clinch under the eaves of the kitchen entrance. Philippe's back was to me, and I slowed my pace to watch the pair. Lucie spotted me; she looked directly at me and I gazed back for a beat. She returned her attention to Philippe and pushed him away as I darted home.

A hot bath and two large cognacs put me to rights. I dozed briefly, but was awakened by the sense that someone was in the house. I don't worry much about intruders. If the sight of me doesn't run you off, I'm good with a gun, better with a sword, and I can beat the hell out of you for good measure if I get my hands on you. So I sat in bed and waited. My bedroom door opened and shut; I waited. I reached over slowly and turned up the lamp.

It was Lucie, back against my bedroom door. "Gaston…" She unfastened her cape and let it drop to the floor, kicked off her shoes and padded over to me. "I can't stop thinking of you. When I saw you tonight, I realized how useless it was." She raised the comforter and sheet and slipped in beside me. Her hands were icy against my chest. I pulled her blouse free of her skirt and over her head.

"You know Philippe is in love with you, Lucie," I murmured.

"I can't help it, Gaston," she whispered. She helped me slip her skirt off. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me as I'm sure she hadn't kissed Philippe. Her leg tangled around mine as I worked on the tiny buttons down the front of her chemise. I was salivating to discover those breasts. Meanwhile, her tongue danced around mine, tantalizing, inviting. At last the buttons were undone; my hands enfolded my prizes with reverence. Perfect; Lucie's breasts were made for my hands. I kissed; I nuzzled; in the lamplight her nipples were the most exquisite pink I had beheld. "Gaston, Gaston, Gaston…" Lucie made my name sound like a prayer. Her hands kneaded and stroked my back. We rolled back and forth across the bed, just experiencing how our bodies moved and molded with each other.

My brother…I surprised myself. I tried to speak, but Lucie wouldn't let me go. I was forced to speak between kisses as best I could. "Lucie, you don't know me. Philippe is the better man; just be nice to him, he'll marry you. Go now."

Lucie brushed the hair out of my eyes–a first–and held my hideous face in her hands. "Is that what you want me to do? Gaston?" She searched my eyes. I shrugged indifferently and remained silent. "No, it's not what you want me to do," she decided. She kissed me then as if I was a perfect, beautiful infant.

There was a pretty girl in my bed, welcoming me inside her, urging me to meet her ardor, saying she wanted me. I couldn't understand it; I had not paid her or promised her anything. Before she slipped away, I asked Lucie why she wasn't bothered by my face.

"You weren't bothered that I was a simple kitchen maid when you offered me flowers and made me feel like a princess."

"I just wanted your breasts," I confessed. Sleep was overtaking me.

"Of course you did."

I was obsessed with Lucie as spring approached. She tolerated my ugly moods; she said I made her laugh. I would stalk her while she worked in the garden, fully aware of my presence, catch her and drag her into the hedgerow behind my home. It was a dangerous game in many ways, but we were invincible in our passion.

-0-0-0-0-

They held a memorial service at the cemetery for the first anniversary of Mother's death. I was expected not to attend out of consideration for our guests. I stayed home and sang all the songs I'd learned from her. I smoothed the creases from her dress. I played jigsaw puzzle with the mask over and over until my tears blurred the pieces too much to see.

-0-0-0-0-

I heard heated voices from my window one morning. I crept out to investigate; it was Lucie and Philippe. I didn't eavesdrop on their argument; I went back inside. I sat in a sunbeam, pulled out a book, and set to work on my daily drunk. It couldn't have been twenty minutes before Philippe clattered in.

"Brother?"

"Gaston, I–"

"–need my help, I can see that." I gestured to a chair.

"I don't know what's wrong with Lucie!"

"Mm. Here, drink. Don't try to deal with women sober, that's your first mistake."

"I'm serious!"

"I know you are. So am I. Now, tell Gaston."

"She's so impatient with me all of a sudden. Everything was perfect at Christmas. I haven't done anything wrong!" he insisted. Poor puppy.

"You don't have to do anything wrong. She's a woman, I tell you."

"It makes no sense," he wailed.

"If you want it to make sense, you'll have to go catamite immediately."

"GASTON!"

"Women don't have to make sense, Philippe. What is she saying to you?"

"She says I crowd her. How can I propose marriage if I'm crowding her?"

"Philippe, we settled it last year that you can't marry this girl. She's unsuitable," I said firmly.

"Mother was suitable," he parried defiantly.

"Mother was different!" I flared.

"You don't know Lucie," he insisted.

"Oh, don't I?" I was off-balance; you don't insult my mother.

"What does that mean? Gaston!"

"Goddammit, Philippe, will you stop being such a baby! You've got everything, and still you're so insecure, you make me sick! No wonder she's tired of you! Be a man, have your fun with her, and find a nice pedigreed ice princess to marry as everyone expects." My guts were churning; I went for another bottle of wine.

Philippe was on the verge of tears. "I have a right to happiness in my life!" he cried.

"SO HAVE I!" I flung the bottle at him; thank God I missed. We looked at each other in stunned silence for several seconds before Philippe drifted away.

At my first opportunity, I pulled Lucie up short and berated her for putting me at odds with my brother. I demanded that she patch things up with him and leave me alone, reducing her to tears. Her pitiful sobbing made me so furious that I threw her to the ground, tore her clothes and savaged her. No matter how I mistreated her, I couldn't make her hate me.

-0-0-0-0-

I retreated to Mother's treasure chest. It was a prickly comfort, but the only one I had left besides drinking to unconsciousness. I felt the events of the past year had been too much; maybe I was losing my mind. My temper was too ragged to gamble; I came close to murder on two occasions. Going to Zizou's removed the physical edge of my marauding lust, but left me hollow. Mignonette, Honey, Crystal–one at a time or all of them, it made no difference. How does a man go from wanting women to wanting one particular woman? How did it happen to me?

-0-0-0-0-

Lili rested her head on my shoulder. We walked the length of the entry hall arm in arm. "I wish you and Philippe would stop arguing. He misses you so."

"We're not arguing. I'm a moody bastard and he needs to grow up." That summed it up.

"You're not always a moody bastard, Gaston," she reminded me.

"He wants my advice about girls. Lili, do I want to hear about HIS troubles with girls? He should spend a day with my girl troubles."

"Philippe says you don't approve of his sweetheart," she smiled.

"Did he happen to tell you who she is?"

"He says you're a hypocrite because you expect him to marry a noblewoman, regardless of Mother."

"The lady in question in nothing like Mother, Lili. Just leave it." I grumbled.

"You know her? Is she one of your…friends?"

"NO, she is not one of my friends. Little One, I don't care to discuss this aspect of my life with you, if that's alright."

"I know what you get up to," she giggled.

"You think so?" I retorted dryly. I spied my rescue in the form of Father approaching, so I kissed her ear and slipped away.

"I'm sorry about the memorial service, Gaston," Father apologized as soon as his study doors were shut.

I waved it off, puffed the cigar to life, and accepted a cognac. "Christ, this is good," I admired the cigar.

"How are you?" he ignored my language.

"Horrible. I want to ask you something."

"Anything I can do," he replied, settling back and brushing an invisible speck from his perfect lapel.

"In Mother's chest, there is a mask in pieces; I assume the Phantom's."

"Yes." I saw that he was working to remain expressionless.

I put it to him directly. "Why would she keep a memento of such a harrowing event? And of all things, her captor's mask? An image of the face of the man who tried to force her into marriage? It makes no sense."

The overbred Chagnys–myself excluded–are a high-colored bunch. They ooze ruddy good health: sunshine, good food, fresh country air. So it was significant that when I asked my question, the color drained from my father's face. Several times, I watched him pick up an answer, examine it, and discard it. His brow furrowed and relaxed. Eventually, he sighed.

"Gaston, I don't know what to tell you," he confessed. "It was a painful night for all of us, but it was…complicated. I never asked your mother for an explanation of her friendship with Erik."

The name hit me like a horse's hoof in the chest. "Erik?"

"Erik," my father repeated. "Erik was the Phantom."

-0-0-0-0-

I sat with the contents of Mother's trunk spread all around me. E., Erik, the Phantom; Erik was the Phantom. He loved her. He composed for her, designed for her, abducted her. He wanted to marry her at one time and felt betrayed by her at another. He called her his muse and pleaded for her forgiveness. He claimed to be willing to kill my father for her, but he let her leave with him. Was Father his rival, or was it over between Erik and Mother by then? It seemed Erik hadn't thought so–or hadn't wanted to believe it. Did my mother deceive Erik with my father?

Was he a madman? Did she ever love him? His music, his roses, his cloak, his notes, his mask: everything in the trunk led back to Erik and Mother, I was convinced of it. How could she have turned her back on such passion?

My father said he never asked Mother for an explanation; could that be true? He had said he'd help me and likely promised Mother the same. Obviously, he expected difficult questions; he's an honest man, but anyone can lie if sufficient is at stake. What did he know? What did he know?

-0-0-0-0-

"Gaston, this is a note of thanks from the management of the Opera Populaire," Father's speech was clipped in his irritation, "inviting the Chagnys to the gala opening of the  
season."

I snatched the elegant card from his hand. "Why the hell did they send it to you?"

"Because I'm the head of the family. It would have been discourteous to do otherwise, just as it was for you to attempt such a stunt without informing me. What were you thinking?"

I returned to my supper. "Don't worry, Father. If I attend, I'll purchase a ticket like everyone else, and I won't tell anyone my name."

"Stop it, Gaston! You know that's not what it's about!" My father grumbled half to himself. "Sponsoring a staging in Christine's name; good God, it's scandalous!"

"She loved the Opera," I replied mildly. "Bordeaux?"

Father shook his head.

"You're sure? It's quite good. Anyway, I thought it was a nice gesture in Mother's memory."

"I am going to write them and insist that they acknowledge the gift anonymously, if at all." He turned to leave.

"Father, will you take me under the Opera House, down to--"

"No. It's been over twenty years, Gaston, and with the damage from the fire, I wouldn't remember anything of my way around. I nearly died down there, the place was full of trapdoors and dead ends."

-0-0-0-0-

I was consumed with seeing where Erik had taken my mother. Finally, after several weeks of working out a way into the theater after hours, I was wandering below the Opera House. The blackness was total; one could feel that no sun ever shone there. What sort of man lived in such a place?

I was surprised at my ability to find my way around without running in circles or getting lost forever, but the place was endless. I fell down trapdoors and slides. I followed promising corridors that landed me on the street outside. I fell into water and nearly drowned. I found a passage that led up to the stage, another that came up through the floor of an office. I didn't find anything I was looking for, though. It took me a couple of months to admit to myself that it was useless.


	4. Chapter 4

I was wretched after my failure under the Opera House. I'd wanted to see something, anything, of what had been twenty-odd years before. I was also disappointed because–like an ass--I'd harbored an idiotic fantasy that the Phantom would appear, offer me a glass of Merlot and answer all my questions. 'Of course, my boy, perfect stranger, son of my rival, and ugly bastard, sit right down and I'll lay bare the most painful experience of my life, just because you asked.'

The questions I most wanted answered Father either couldn't or wouldn't answer. Who else was there? I was convinced that Erik was still out there, somewhere, but I wouldn't find him without his consent, no doubt. I had to find a way to flush him out. I had no plan, no idea of what to do next, but I became agitated if I wasn't doing something toward unraveling the mystery of Mother and the Phantom. While I blundered around searching for inspiration, I promised myself that I'd return to the Opera House cellar once a week and wander aimlessly, just to feel as if I was making progress.

-0-0-0-0-

For his birthday, Philippe decided to buy himself a commission in the army. It was a Chagny sort of thing to do; not that I've ever considered it. Even if they would find my carcass suitable cannon fodder, I've been threatened with a gun enough to have lost all my romantic notions about it. Lili mentioned casually that Philippe intended to be engaged before he left, and I went berserk. I strode into the big house with little Lili scrambling behind.

"Philippe! Philippe!"

"Gaston, lower your voice!" Father emerged from his study, appalled at my shouting. Philippe appeared on the landing. Our relations had thawed somewhat, but he was still wary of me.

"Get down here, you fuckwit!" I ordered.

"GASTON! For God's sake!" Father blasted. Lilli clutched his arm.

"What do you want?" Philippe seemed calm; he knew what I was raving about.

"You can't marry her!"

"That's not your concern!" Philippe insisted, descending the staircase.

"Oh, you think not? It is if I say so!"

Philippe landed a glancing blow on my jaw. I heard Lili screaming and crying, and Father ordering us to stop.

"Mother was--"

"Will you shut up about Mother! This isn't about Mother!" I interrupted.

When Philippe came at me the next time, I was better prepared and caught him with my elbow. I felt his nose give way, but he kept coming in spite of the blood and pain. "Stay out of my life, Gaston!" He leapt at me, knocking me to the ground. I felt my ribs crunch when I hit the floor. Philippe landed with me, and I started kicking at any part of him I could reach. I had him at a disadvantage quickly; I'm built bigger and he's never had to fight to save himself from a pounding as I have.

"Get off my son, you animal!" Father pulled us apart. As soon as I got to my feet, Lili urged me toward the door.

Philippe yelled after me. "We're not finished, Gaston! Do you hear me? I swear–"

Shit. SHIT. I dragged myself home and fell on the bed. As long as I didn't breathe too hard, nothing hurt. I put myself out with cognac.

-0-0-0-0-

I was dreaming of Lucie. Her hair tickled my face as she kissed me and whispered my name. She was crying; I could feel her little tears falling on my cheek. A tear trickled down toward my ear; I reached up to brush it away, but my hand bumped into something and I came awake with a start. I winced and groaned. My head was pounding; my ribs were stabbing.

"Gaston..."

I opened my eyes. She was no dream.

"Are you going to marry him?" I whispered.

"You told me to marry him," she cried softly.

I pulled her down and made her stretch out on top of me. It hurt like hell and I didn't care a bit. I snatched her blouse up, hungry for her skin under my hands. "Do you let him touch you? Does he touch you like this? Do you let him kiss these breasts? Does he suck these nipples?" I demanded. I drew her skirt up and kneaded her thighs and bottom roughly. I drew her up, pulled her along by her skirt. "Get up, get up here." Lucie clambered up my body gently. I pulled her legs into position and she knelt straddling my head. "Does he kiss you here? Do you let him do this?" I wriggled my tongue at her and she scooted down to help me reach. I traced her plump little lips before the tip of my tongue darted between them. I penetrated her repeatedly and she whimpered with long-denied pleasure. My tongue slipped north to stroke her joy button; she pulled my face tight against her muff and rocked her hips, forcing the tempo. Lucie's legs began to tremble. She was forced to release my head and clutch the headboard to hold her balance. I wrapped my arms around her thighs and held her all but motionless. Her weeping was of a different kind.

"No-no. No," she pleaded, but she didn't mean it. I held her fast until she collapsed forward against the headboard.

"You can't rest now, Lucie. I've got a surprise for you; get on it," I laughed.

"I will," she panted. My lusty Lucie.

"Take your skirt off; it's in the way. I want to watch." Lucie undressed and proceeded to help me out of my trousers; I groaned and winced. "Ribs; your goddamn fiancé tried to kill me," I growled.

She raised my shirt and made sympathetic noises at my bruises. "Oooh, poor Gaston," she cooed. "Shall I kiss and make it better?" Without waiting for my enthusiastic response, she soothed my ribs with cool kisses. Her lips tickled my abdomen; her tongue traced curlicues around my navel, lower. She took a firm grip on my shaft and slithered between my legs. I felt the most incredible sensation; it took a second to realize that she'd taken my entire sac into her mouth and was sucking on it ever so gently. How she managed that with her little rosebud mouth I'll never know, but I nearly shot my bolt on the spot. She ran her tongue slowly up to the sweet spot just under the head and gave it a few maddening flicks. The cool air on my sac was a startling, but not disagreeable, change from the warm, secure feeling of a moment before. She placed a prim little kiss on the tip of my prick, looking up at me with huge, innocent eyes.

"You'd better not tease me," I warned. Her lips encircled the head lightly and sucked me up hungrily. She worked me vigorously with mouth and hands; I knew I wouldn't last long. "Lucie, when I tell you let me cum on your breasts."

"Mm."

Presently, I forced my eyes open and looked down at her little head bobbing up and down on my big nasty vein, and that did it. "Lucie, now, now!" It was a violent finish, the kind where I felt my whole body pour out onto her breasts. My little pigeon knew her job and massaged the cream into her skin with relish. I pulled her into my arms and fell asleep, reveling in my scent all over her.

-0-0-0-0-

I did not see my brother before he departed. I didn't go up to the main house, and Lili didn't come to fetch me. I don't know whether it was Father or Philippe who stopped her. Under the circumstances, I accepted that it was for the best.

Mother and Father often took us to the seashore when we were little. It held pleasant memories for them, and it came to do so for me, too. I found myself thinking of the shore a lot during those first weeks after Philippe left, and I decided I wanted to take Lucie on a little honeymoon. I instructed her to tell the head housekeeper that she'd gotten word of a distant relative at death's door; she would need a few weeks off. It worked beautifully, despite Lucie's reservations. We found a small, quiet inn out of the main flow of humanity and a relatively secluded stretch of shoreline to play on. She couldn't really swim, but I taught her enough to get by; anyway, she splashed around more adorably than anyone I've ever seen. I'm sure the few people around were horrified by my appearance, but I never noticed any staring or gasping. I was oblivious to everything but Lucie.

We settled into a routine when we returned. Lucie stayed with me most nights, even though she had to rise early to get back to the main house. Over time, I learned that she could barely read. I began teaching her, and she made fair progress. It's difficult for adults, I guess, and I'm not the most patient creature. Perhaps Lucie wasn't the brightest little tart in the world, but she was incredibly devoted to me. I don't know why; of all the men in the world, God knows she could have done better. She looked at me the way Mother used to.

I resumed my raids into Paris with Victor and Rene. Lucie wasn't happy about it, but I was not about to let my idiot friends or Lucie think that I'd slid without protest into some version of domestic bliss. I savored my life as a roué and had no intention of giving it up, no matter how tempting the enticements to do so.

"Gaston, you were gone for three days!"

"Don't whine, Pigeon, you're not my wife. Anyway, Gaston brought you flowers."

"If you knew how I missed you–"

"It wouldn't make a bit of difference. When it's time for me to go, I go."

"Gaston–"

"This is how it is, Lucie. Shut up or get back to the main house."

-0-0-0-0-

My weekly forays under the Opera House were as unproductive as ever, but, again, it gave me the illusion of progress. I finally settled on an idea that was a long shot, but as good as any I'd had. Actually, it was the only one I had. I put an advertisement in the theatrical trade papers–I assumed that a mad recluse wouldn't care about the general news–in the hope of luring the Phantom out.

ERIK: I HAVE YOUR MUSE'S BOOK OF SONNETS. REPLY HERE TO ARRANGE FOR ITS RETURN. DON JUAN

I waited.

-0-0-0-0-

Toward the end of the year, Lucie turned insufferable: clingy, demanding, weepy, everything unpleasant, except she still rode me like a mad bitch and sucked my bones out through my prick. Avoiding her only seemed to make it worse. Previously, the threat of abandonment would have put her on her best behavior.

I was nearly asleep after a marvelous, energetic session when my sweaty little pigeon--still peppering kisses all over my chest–murmured: "You could still go to Paris as you do now if you married me, Gaston. Nothing would change."

"What? Of course something would change. I would be married."

"I know I still please you…"

"Oh, Christ, not again…let me up." I started pulling on my clothes.

"Please, Gaston, just marry me. Please, please," she was nearly hysterical. How stupid I was.

"Lucie, you're begging, and it's disgusting. Stop it or get out."

"But I love you, Gaston! Please--"

"Then don't mention marriage again." I took myself to the stable and slept in a horse blanket.

-0-0-0-0-

Philippe came home for the holiday. My mood had gone to shit sufficiently that I wasn't about to subject myself to a 'family Christmas'. I had not gotten a single bite from Erik on my trade paper ad, and I was on the outs with both Lucie and my family. I spent Christmas and New Year's at Zizou's with my whores. I shagged myself raw, stayed drunk and still managed to win eighteen thousand francs. If I could only stay sober, I know I could take over the world.

Lili must have been watching for signs of life, because she was at my door within an hour of my return. "We missed you," she kissed me and handed me a gift.

"Mm, I didn't relish the thought of being pummeled again."

"Mother would be sad to know how it is with you two."

"Mother is gone, Lili, she is very much gone. Stop trying to make me feel guilty."

"Gaston, please don't be a pill tonight."

I pinched her nose and gave her a real hug. "Here, Little One, happy belated Christmas."

I poured us wine and sat to guess at my gift. "Hm. Gorgeous woman ready to do whatever I command."

"Perfect," Lili applauded. "And on the first guess. My brilliant brother." It was a cozy, warm scarf of burgundy wool.

"Lili, you didn't knit this with your own dear little hands?" She nodded proudly. I kissed her palms. "I will treasure it, Little One. Thank you."

"And I hope this is my perfume," she guessed.

"My brilliant sister. Not particularly original, but…"

"No, Gaston, I depend on it each year. And I think of you each time I use it. Thank you."

"Soon you'll have a new fragrance, chosen by your lover, and poor Gaston."

Lili gasped, "My lover! Gaston!" She blushed and giggled, "You're outrageous!"

"Thank you, I've tried to apply myself."

She rested comfortably on my shoulder. "So, we were presented with Philippe's intended. I can't say 'met', really," she said after a moment.

"Oh?" I asked, tightly.

"I don't think Father is pleased, but of course he won't say anything."

"Bugger what Philippe says, it's a totally different situation to Mother," I jumped in.

"Gaston, I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the fact that they're in love."

"She's not in love with him," I blurted out.

Shit. There was an endless silence.

"How can you be so sure of yourself, Gaston?"

"She's a kitchen maid, Lili! She's passably pretty, and our stupid brother makes puppy eyes at her…she's out for what she can get," I flubbed my way through.

"You shouldn't judge people so, Gaston," she murmured.

"Right, when are they–when does it happen?"

"Philippe will be home again in April or May; I think then. She doesn't want a big to-do."

"Hm."

"You should make an effort to be friendly to her, Gaston. It would go a long way with Philippe."

"Hm."

She decided to change the subject. "So what did you do for Christmas?"

"Same thing I always do–only I did it much more festively." I raised an eyebrow at her. "Would you like a new horse, Lili? I won a lot of money, and I really don't need anything."

"No, but thank you. Why don't you put it into finding a decent woman to take care of you?"

"A decent woman would run screaming into the night–"

"You're impossible. I think I'm going to have all my friends to tea, and insist that you join us," she mused.

"How many are we talking about, now? I've only ever been to bed with three at one time."

"Gaston!" she shrieked. Then, in a conspiratorial whisper: "Gaston, whatever would you do with three?"

"Someday, I will tell you. But not today."


	5. Chapter 5

DON JUAN: NEXT THURSDAY MORNING YOUR INSTRUCTIONS WILL AWAIT YOU AT NUMBER 5. ERIK.

Erik was insane, no doubt. After all this goddamn time, I'd all but given up looking for a response. I was merely doing it out of habit. Any normal person would have given up long since; I suppose that made me insane, too. And how the hell did he expect me to sneak into Box 5 at the Opera House in the morning? He'd forgotten that everyone was not a Phantom. It had to be Box 5 he was referring to. At least I hoped so.

-0-0-0-0-

Lucie was no longer a kitchen maid, but a lady of leisure. Lili had befriended her and they were nearly constant companions, in spite of having nothing but small talk to make between them. It was more of a challenge for Lucie to get out at night, but she still she found her way to me. Our reunion was full of tears and recrimination. She wore Philippe's ring, yet refused to admit any feelings for him. She insisted that if I would not marry her, she would marry him when he returned in the spring. I threatened her that I would not be coerced, and if she wanted to whore herself to a man she couldn't love for a title and pretty clothes, to hell with her. Still, our lovemaking was more fiercely passionate than ever and we clung to each other as if we were drowning.

I've always been a perverse bastard. I felt fairly certain that I loved Lucie. Whatever it was I felt for her, I hadn't experienced it before. I don't know why I refused to marry her. I was afraid of something. Looking back now, I wonder how I could have been so obtuse.

Lili brought Lucie to visit me and presented her as Philippe's fiancée. We went through the sordid farce of making polite small-talk with each other twelve hours after lying tangled up together. I welcomed her to the family and she recalled seeing me from the kitchen garden. I could see that Lucie was terrified and I felt it was a pathetic performance, too, but if Lili found us transparent, she gave no sign of it.

-0-0-0-0-

I snuck into Box 5 at the Opera House successfully. On one of the chairs, there was an envelope of fine quality, sealed in red wax with the impression of a death's head which looked to be a duplicate of the seal in Mother's trunk. My hand trembled as I reached for it. Though I was dying to open it, I rushed from the building; I couldn't bring myself to open it there.

I leaned against the side of the theater and slipped my finger under the seal; it was fresh and pliable. My breath caught in my throat when I saw the familiar handwriting, in red ink:

Don Juan,  
There is a café across the square. A week from today at half-past five, take the outside table nearest the entrance to the Opera House. Dress in theater clothes and wear a red rose in your lapel. If you are not alone, you shall not hear from me again. I do not suffer treachery lightly.  
Your servant,  
E.

It was Erik, by God, without a doubt. I couldn't stop trembling; I was sure I wouldn't sleep all week. I had to begin a list of all the things I wanted to ask him. Only a week!

-0-0-0-0-

I had stayed in Paris to try and quiet my mind after recovering Erik's note. When I returned home two days later, Lucie joined me late in the evening. She looked different in a way I couldn't name. I had undressed and slid under the covers; she was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to me, clutching her chemise to her breasts to cover herself. I waited. She did not face me when she began to speak.

"I'm pregnant, Gaston, and it's starting to show quite a bit."

Shit. Oh, SHIT. Flaming balls of pig shit; Gaston, think.

"It's Philippe's, right?" Idiot.

Lucie was trying very hard to cry silently, so that I wouldn't be angry about her tears as well as her news. "I've lost everything," she sobbed. She sprung up from the bed as if it was burning. Her chemise dropped away as she turned. Jesus, she had a gigantic bump. Two, three days ago, last time she was with me, she looked like a normal girl. Now…she had a gigantic bump.

"Jesus, Lucie, you've got a gigantic bump!"

So much for crying silently. She ran from the bedroom; I was right behind her. No no, Lucie, let's not run naked from Gaston's house. I steered her back to bed.

"You don't want me," she accused. "Philippe won't have me."

"There's no way it could be his, you're sure?" It was really, really hard to imagine that he still hadn't got to her. You would think at Christmas when they made it official that he would have gone for a bit.

"It's impossible, Gaston," she insisted, fairly disgusted with me. "I know you can't believe it, but I don't want him and I haven't encouraged him."

So, I'd gotten a monster baby on my brother's fiancé, and in just a few days I had an interview with my mother's lunatic former beau. A few days after that, judging by the look of her, everyone would know that there was more in Lucie's belly than ever went in through her mouth. Things were shaping up beautifully. I flared with silent rage at Mother: if you were here, none of this would have happened. I let Lucie cry all over me; not what I had planned for the evening, but I felt that I would need to learn to be more flexible in the future.

-0-0-0-0-

"Lucie, I've thought a lot about this." Her eyes were so bright, so tender. I'd agonized over this for several days, but no matter how I turned it, I came up with the same answer. It was critical that I get this mess behind me and get on with it. I had to get back to Paris and Erik, and what Mother wanted me to learn.

"I just don't want to marry you. I don't want to marry anyone. I'll give you money–for the child."

Lucie's face fell, but still I saw optimism in her eyes. "Can…I come see you then? Can I still be with you?" Hopeful again.

"No. No more, it's finished, Lucie. I'll give you money." I was struggling to stay strong. If I held her, she'd take encouragement from that. If I smiled at her, or tried to comfort her in any way, she'd be convinced that we still had a future, and we didn't. I wanted no part of her and her baby.

"I don't want money, Gaston, I don't want money!" she crumbled into complete hysteria. She groveled; she pleaded; she wailed and screamed and cursed me. She told me how sorry I'd be, because I loved her as much as she loved me. She promised that no one would ever love me as she did. Well, I had no doubt of that.

She wouldn't stop. She wouldn't leave. So I got on a horse and went to Paris.

-0-0-0-0-

It was not yet half-past five. I sat at the table Erik had specified in his note and ordered a coffee. I patted my breast pocket for the thousandth time to ensure that Mother's little book of sonnets was still there. I sipped the coffee; it was doing nothing for my nausea.

The cathedral bells struck the half hour and I turned toward the entrance to the café. For an instant, I met the eyes of someone familiar, but the next instant, the eyes were gone. Had I imagined it? I bolted from the table and around the corner. Catching up easily with the small woman in black, I grasped her arm and spun her around to face me.

"Aunt Giry? It is you!" An old friend of my mother's, we saw a good deal of her when we were young. She had been the ballet mistress at the Opera when Mother was there, and served almost as a surrogate mother. She was old, but straight and sharp as ever.

"Gaston!" she smiled. "What a surprise!"

"What are you doing here?" I asked, confused.

"I was just passing by, Gaston," she replied nervously.

"No, you saw me and you tried to duck out. I saw your face–just barely, but I know you ran when you saw me! What are you doing here, Aunt Giry?" I demanded. I was shocked to see tears spring into Aunt Giry's eyes.

"Gaston…" her voice quavered as she struggled for composure. She was always so self possessed. "Please, let it be. He knows nothing of you…he is old, Gaston."

"Who? Erik? Erik sent you here? How do you know him?"

"I was at the Opera for years, Gaston, of course I knew him." She dug her handkerchief out and dabbed at her eyes. "Gaston, please, do you have the Sonnets? He wants the Sonnets."

"No. The Sonnets were a lure; I might have turned them over if he'd come and spoken to me, instead of sending you, like a coward. I want to know about my Mother and him. Mother left me a trunk…of Erik's things, basically, and I want to understand it. Tell him he can have the book if he meets me and answers my questions." I replied, angry and bitterly disappointed.

"He's not a coward. He's old, I told you. He doesn't come outside."

"Is he ill?"

"Not particularly; he's reclusive–you know that much."

"Take me to him, then."

"I can't, Gaston. Please, you don't understand; he doesn't know anything about you."

"That's nonsense, he was obviously obsessed with my mother. No doubt he followed every move she made as best he could from his hiding place. You can't tell me he didn't know she married Father and had children. He knows she's dead–"

"Yes."

"Where is he? Is he over there?" I gestured toward the Opera House.

"Gaston, I can't…"

"What is it between you? Why did he send you? Tell me, dammit!" I shouted.

"I do the same for him now as I did at the Opera. I run errands for him sometimes."

"You've done for him all these years? You're his lover–"

"No! Gaston, he's alone, he has no one. I help him…oh, God, leave it, Gaston." She continued to shed tears.

"Why don't you think he's a fiend and a monster? Everyone considers him a fiend and a monster."

"No," she whispered softly. "Your mother didn't."

"You knew about them, then. You tell me," I shook her arm, more roughly than I intended. "You tell me what happened between Mother and Erik!"

"It's done now, Gaston, no one can change anything. Why do you open such old wounds? Love your Mother, love what she gave you. Go home and forget all this."

"My Mother wanted me to learn about this, Aunt Giry! This trunk that Father gave me, it had the Sonnets in it–do you know how this book is inscribed? Look, look: 'To my Muse. E.' Mother gave this to me! She gave me half-burned pieces of music; roses, dozens of roses; Erik's mask, broken to pieces–she collected all the pieces she could find, all but one, wrapped them up and preserved them so carefully all this time. There are three little notes he wrote her in there–do you want to see? Come to the house, I'll show it all to you. She wanted me to have these things; she wanted me to know…something; I don't know what. Father can't help me. He tried to tell me all he could, but he said he never asked Mother about Erik–do you believe that?"

"Yes, I believe it." Aunt Giry replied firmly. "Raoul is an extraordinary man." The way Aunt Giry said that; it was almost chilling. I pressed her.

"Erik was Mother's lover, wasn't he? Wasn't he? How did she come to be with Father? Tell me!"

"I can't say anything more, Gaston. Forget him. Forget all of this. You're so young; let it go." She sounded so sad, so tired. "Gaston, please, won't you give me the book? It would mean so much to him to have something of Christine's."

"You've got plenty of compassion for him, Aunt Giry. It's a pity you can't feel any for Christine's son." I walked away in disgust. My eyes began to sting ominously. I ran around the side of the Opera House, crouched down, pulled my cloak over my eyes and cried bitter, angry tears.


	6. Chapter 6

I went on a serious drunk when I got home. I finally sobered up after I began having horrific nightmares in which I was running through the caverns under the Opera with something chasing me. I couldn't see it, but I could hear the footsteps getting closer. After the third night of waking up screaming and dripping with sweat, I decided that I'd dry out a bit. I'm not a big one for mirrors, but even I have to admit that I looked like death on toast.

Lili appeared around the time I began to feel human again. She was obviously in distress, but she refused to say anything other than that I was to come up to the main house, Father wanted me and it was not open to debate. He would not get any trouble out of me; Lili's face was pleading. I promised I'd be up as soon as I had a bath.

When I got to the big house, Lili directed me into Father's study; she didn't join us. I was shocked to see that Philippe was home. Philippe refused to look at me, and Father was grim as I'd ever seen him.

"Gaston, I have no idea where you've been," Father game me a withering look of disapproval. He jabbed his thumb in the general direction of the second floor. "There is a young woman upstairs who tried to end her life on your account." He paused. He had to be talking about Lucie, but I couldn't find anything to say. It appeared that he didn't really expect me to. I glanced at Philippe, but he focused on Father and pretended to have no peripheral vision of me. Father continued. "Gaston, sometimes you must to do the right thing, whether you like it or not. For you, that time has come. You must marry this girl."

Obviously Father had not discussed his plans with Philippe, because my brother started and cried, "No!" He collected himself respectfully; everything about Father's demeanor suggested that he'd brook no insolence from anyone at the moment. "Father, don't force him to marry her if he doesn't want to. He'll mistreat her. Please, I'll–"

"Philippe, no." Father cut him off firmly. Looking at Philippe, he sighed deeply, and suddenly he looked twenty years older. "Son, I know what you are thinking, believe me, but I will not allow it. No." Father turned to me, and I could not read anything in his eyes. "Gaston?"

"I wasn't planning to leave her stranded; I told her I would give her money. I don't want to get married." I sounded like a weasel, even to myself.

"And you think that money solves it all for her." Father shook his head. "She trusted you, Gaston; whether she should have or not is another question. What about her name? What about her honor? What about the life of that child, growing up fatherless and nameless?" he demanded. It was obvious that he felt astonishingly strongly about it. "You'll marry this girl, or you'll leave here with nothing but the clothes on your back and a horse. You'll live by your wits as best you can, because I'll have nothing more to do with you."

"You wouldn't do that! Mother–"

"But Mother is not here, sadly, and I fear she was the only one who had any idea how to handle you. You've given us a fair bit of trouble over the years, Gaston. I have tried…" he regarded me strangely.

I was not yet twenty four; perhaps I could support myself by gambling for awhile, but assuming I wasn't murdered before I was forty, what would I do when I got old? The truth is, I cannot live on my own. I function well in my little circle, but the world is not safe for a deformed man without money or connections. I need my safe haven on the Chagny estate. I need my father's protection.

"Fine. Fine, goddammit!" I tore from the house and ran to Paris.

-0-0-0-0-

I stayed in Paris as long as I could. I went home with a wedding ring for Lucie–but I still felt trapped and angry. In my absence, the planning had been proceeding apace, and I was at the altar ten days after Father delivered his ultimatum. I hadn't seen Lucie since the day I told her I wouldn't marry her, but when I saw how unhappy she looked on our wedding day, my heart just melted. It wasn't her I was angry at. The priest pronounced us husband and wife, and I gave Lucie a proper kiss. When I finally released her, her eyes were confused and uncertain, but only for a moment. I kissed her again, and this time when she looked at me, her eyes said that she understood.

Lucie came into my arms on our wedding night as if there'd never been any trouble between us. Holding her, kissing her, stroking her belly, I wondered what had been wrong with me to run away from her. All she wanted was for us to love each other–and we did.

I forgot all about Erik.

We were absurdly happy newlyweds in our little house. Lucie waddled around and made the place look cheery and homey, and she planted flowers outside. Everything she touched with her little green thumb flourished. The bump–that was what we called the baby–didn't disturb our honeymoon at all. It was a delightful game to work out all the ways we could make love as the bump grew.

We lay in bed at night discussing names, wondering what his voice would sound like–Lucie was determined that the bump was a boy–what he would be like as he grew, how many brothers and sisters he should have. So many plans for the future; for the first time I felt I actually had one. I never mentioned my fears that the child would look like me. Lucie was glowing with happiness; I couldn't bear to plant even a hint of worry in her mind.

The midwife expected the baby for several weeks before it finally came. Lucie was huge, uncomfortable, and more than ready. She had minor pains for several days before her real labor began. When it did finally begin, it was violent and protracted. Lucie suffered a long time; a day, a night and another day. Late that second afternoon, the midwife sent for the doctor. He arrived and in short order advised that the child's head was too big, he would have to cut Lucie to get it out.

Lucie came through the operation well; she was exhausted, but elated when she saw her big-headed baby boy. He was not as ugly as me; not normal and perfect, but a bit less deformed. Lucie declared him beautiful and insisted I fetch Father and Lili to see him immediately. We named him Chretien Raoul Joseph, after Mother, Father, and Lucie's father.

Lucie recovered nicely for two days. On the third morning, she awoke with a fever, and by the time the doctor arrived, she was bleeding heavily. I stayed next to her that night; a little before daylight, she gave a peaceful little sigh…and I was alone again.

When Lili came, she had the presence of mind to send for a wet nurse; the big-headed murderer was screaming for food, you see. She could not convince me to let Lucie go and sent for Father. He took my hands in his, even as they still held Lucie, and when he squeezed them, he made me understand that I would live–though I didn't want to. My father held me for a long time, but I couldn't cry.

I buried my little Lucie in her wedding dress. I laid some peonies with her; she liked them best.

-0-0-0-0-

A week after the funeral I went to Paris. Lili and the nurse had been caring for Chretien, but he was my responsibility, and he needed a mother. I went to Zizou's and proposed to Mignonette. I explained my situation: I wanted a mother for my son and I didn't want to go through the charade of trying to locate a likely candidate and convince her that I loved her. I think Mignonette was startled by my demeanor. I was numb and matter-of-fact as I laid out my expectations; normally when she saw me I was charming, effusive, and at least a little drunk. I think she pitied me in my grief. Likely, whatever I said or failed to say, all she heard was security, respectability, money, and a way out. Thus, two weeks after Lucie died, Gaston de Chagny, widower, married Marie Delon, spinster, in a magistrate's office. I got her a ring and a bunch of flowers; I didn't get our witnesses' names.

Father and Lili were predictably scandalized. They were struck speechless, but fortunately generations of good breeding made themselves felt and they managed to welcome the bride politely. Lili looked at what passed for Mignonette's best dress and promised her a shopping trip soon. Not that the dress was untidy; it just looked like it belonged to a whore. Mignonette was thrilled at Lili's sisterly welcome; I was grateful for Lili's grace.

Mignonette had to draw on all her professional experience to conceal her chagrin at the sight of her new son; I'd warned her, but you just can't prepare someone adequately for The Face. Fortunately, she'd have some time to warm to the idea, since the wet nurse would be wanted for awhile.

I suppose I thought that no girlish dreams would survive the life Mignonette had led, but she had the same romantic illusions about married life that you'd expect from a nineteen-year-old virgin. I thought we had a business arrangement with privileges; anyway, I wanted to be left alone. I set the tone for her on our wedding night when she slithered over and bit my ear; I shrugged her away roughly.

Lili took Mignonette under her wing and helped her assemble a wardrobe of some taste. We began taking Sunday supper at the main house; I didn't want to, but Mignonette enjoyed it. After a few months, I got back to running with my idiot friends as before, but I wasn't a harmless young roué anymore. I was old, cynical and a drunkard.

"Gaston, what have you to do in Paris anyway?"

"The same as I always did, Mignonette."

"But why? Who is it there who interests you so much? Tell me!"

"If there is someone there who interests me, it's because she doesn't browbeat and nag me constantly! She keeps her mouth shut and does what she's told!"

"How would you know if I'll do what I'm told or not--you never touch me! You paid me more attention when I was at Zizou's!"

"Just shut it, woman–you wanted me at home, and I'm home–for all the good it does me!"

"I want you to be nice to me, Gaston. You used to be so nice…you remember all the fun we had. Why don't we go into Paris together? We could go to the theater…play in the carriage…"

"No."

We played almost this identical argument over and over. Chretien would wake up screaming, the nurse would run for cover, one or both of us would throw crockery or a wine bottle, and I would end it by running to the family cemetery and sitting with Lucie until I passed out.

-0-0-0-0-

Actually, the thing which began to bring me back to life was an ugly scene with Philippe at Christmas. If he had been home since Lucie died, I had not seen him. We avoided looking at each other, grumbled the minimum greetings–it was lovely. Mignonette insisted that I had to make some effort to get along with him or Christmas dinner would be impossible. I replied that she didn't know what she was talking about, and to leave it. As I recall, it was another delightful night which ended with us screaming at each other. I passed out on the sofa.

At five months old, Chretien had no idea what was happening, but his first Christmas was made delightful by a loving, doting aunt and mother. He was a fat and incredibly cheerful baby who won everyone over by forcing them to join in his happiness. Even my flawlessly handsome Father, so ungrandfatherly, found his way onto the floor to play with the little troll. I noticed Philippe staring at the child sometimes, and it irritated me. Basically, Philippe's mere presence irritated me, and I'm sure he felt the same about me.

"Why are you staring at my son?" I demanded finally.

"Why, I'm admiring your lovely family, Brother," he replied innocently. "Handsome son, charming wife–tell me: is she salaried, or do you pay her by the encounter?"

I called him every foul thing I could think of as I flew at him. The women scooped the baby up and moved to my father for protection. Philippe and I ignored their pleas to stop fighting.

"You killed her, you killed her, you bastard!" he screamed as we pummeled each other.

"Stop it, Philippe!" I heard Lili shouting as she tried to pull him away. "He loved her! He loved her!"

It seemed that idea had never occurred to Philippe. When it finally sunk in, he allowed Lili to draw him off me and I ran off to the cemetery.

Sometime later, Mignonette came to cover me with my cloak. I was slumped over, but not asleep, and I started as she smoothed it over my shoulders. Some minutes passed, and I thought she had left me; then I heard her just behind me. "Gaston, if it was me, I would have forgiven you, and I would want you to forgive yourself. For the child, and for you. I don't think she wants you to be miserable." I heard her footsteps as she moved off.

Finally, I cried.

-0-0-0-0-

I crept in alongside Mignonette awhile later, trying not to wake her, but she turned toward me and pressed herself into my arms. I cried again, and she held me strongly.

"Thank you," I whispered when I was finally through.

"It's alright, I'm your wife," she reminded me.

-0-0-0-0-

We left Chretien with the nurse and went to Paris for New Year's. The hotel we stayed in seemed like a palace to Mignonette, and she was beside herself, incredulous that we could actually stay in such a place. I took Mignonette to restaurants she'd never dreamed of being in, and the Opera, and the ballet, and an art museum. I felt marvelous to be able to give her so much happiness by doing such an ordinary thing.

We finally consummated our bizarre marriage. We took a late supper after the ballet and made our way back to the hotel. Mignonette ran off to the bath immediately. She was enthralled by the bathtub because it was huge, and there were all sorts of fragrant goodies to dump into the water. Presently, I carried a bottle and two glasses into the bath. "Madame de Chagny, may I?"

"Ooh, yes," she giggled, peering out of a mountain of frothy bubbles. She accepted the glass; I toasted her.

"To a happy new year." We drank, and I kissed her. She wrapped her bubbly arms around my neck and responded happily. I was feeling something like my old self, so I climbed into the bath with her, clothes and all.

"Agh! Gaston!" Mignonette squealed and splashed. "You're a fool!"

"I'm your fool, Madame," I reminded her.

"You are," she mused. She wrapped her long, luscious thighs around my hips, familiar and new at the same time.

"I don't think this will work..." I laughed. I shucked my wet clothes and we played hide-and-seek in the bubbles. More soapy games ensued. We abandoned the bath for the bed after I shampooed her hair, a surprisingly arousing experience.

I surprised Mignonette by putting more emphasis on her pleasure than I had in our previous liaisons; she seemed to have no expectations that I would. If her sounds and wriggles were to be believed–and how do you know with a professional?–she enjoyed my groping, but it soon became apparent that it wasn't going anywhere. I thought she was getting close to her release, but she flopped back on the pillows and seemed to give up. "I'm sorry, Gaston. Don't…just…I can't anymore," she sighed, embarrassed.

"You're supposed to have a good time, too, Mignon," I reminded her.

"Oh, I will," she promised, putting on her best smile. "Come here."

"Not yet, Mignon. Just let go, give it to me."

"I can't…"

"Yes, you can," I soothed and moved between her legs. I'd never kissed a whore's cunt before, and though Mignonette had been with me for months, I'd be lying if I said it didn't give me pause. First time I'd ever had a thought like that about her, but it was fine once I got to work. Mignonette became self-conscious at being the center of attention; a woman's version of being unable to keep it up, I suppose. We had to go through some contortions so she could work my shaft while I ate her, just so she could relax. She kept telling me to stop, because she couldn't, but she did finally. I thought my jaw would never recover; it seemed I was down there an hour. Noisy, too. I was glad we weren't at home, or she'd have wakened Chretien with all her screaming.

She was almost unconscious when I got inside her, but a few minutes frisky shagging revived her nicely. I was glad of that because I was in the mood to sit back and let her ride; no one does it better than Mignonette. As I got closer, I got the urge to pound her senseless, so I turned her around and took her like a bitch. We said stunningly nasty things to each other and collapsed in a sweaty heap. I fell asleep thinking that I may never love her, but she's great fun, and at least I'll be well and truly shagged.


	7. Chapter 7

Our first Sunday dinner of the New Year was an absurdly eventful one. One of Lili's friends, Simone, daughter of some Comte, naturally, had been about through the holiday, and I'd assumed it was because of Philippe. Silly me.

"I'm sorry you couldn't be here for New Year's, Gaston, Mignonette," Father began. No he wasn't; he had people in for New Year's--they didn't want me around. "You missed my announcement. Simone has consented to become my wife."

What? I had several reasons to think it was a ridiculous idea, but owing to my relatively sober state, I was able to keep my mouth shut about it. Simone had an annoying habit of looking down her aristocratic nose at Mignonette and scrupulously avoiding the sight of me and Chretien–not that I don't understand about that last bit, but shouldn't you make the attempt if you're taking my mother's place? I guessed my future stepmother–ha ha--to be nineteen at the oldest. She was very slim, with nearly colorless grey eyes, wispy ash blonde hair, and skin so fair it was translucent. The overall impression was one of ice.

Mignonette tried to make it sound positive later at home. She liked to take the edge off my moods before they got too evil, and she saw me beginning to stew over it. "I think it's wonderful that your father has found someone, Gaston. He's too young to be alone."

"Hm. He'll still be alone with that…spook. She's too thin, it'd be like shagging a post fence. He can do better."

"I think she's strangely beautiful."

"Strange is the word. Only man in history to die of hypothermia in his wedding bed. He'll lose his prick to frostbite."

"You're impossible…"

"I'm feeling a bit chilly myself, Sweetheart…"

-0-0-0-0-

DON JUAN: PLEASE RETURN TO NUMBER FIVE. ANOTHER MESSAGE AWAITS YOU. E.

It was a year since I'd spoken to Aunt Giry. Erik may have been old, but he was clearly not in any hurry. Maybe he thought I was waiting him out, and he finally succumbed; of course that hadn't been the case at all, my year had just been…hell. I went to the Opera house and fetched the note.

Don Juan,

Mme Giry has related to me the substance of your meeting. I regret that it is impossible for me to meet with you directly. You must know that I treasure my privacy; however, I remain concerned to recover the Sonnets. What is it precisely that you wish to know about me? Mme Giry shall contact you to determine the most effective way for us to communicate.  
Hopeful of a mutually satisfactory accomodation, I remain

Your obedient servant,  
Erik

Now, the old bastard was irritating me. He knew–he made sure that I knew that he knew–that I knew (are you following this?) how important that book was to him. He did not know what else I was in possession of, or what I knew about him and Mother. I was sure he was dying to know what I had, and what I knew, but he was so convinced of his own superiority that he thought he could play me like a puppy without having to give up a thing. Before Aunt Giry had a chance to come to see me, I put an ad in the paper.

ERIK:  
NO MEETING, NO SONNETS. NO MUSIC, NO SKETCHES, NO MUSIC BOX, NO DRESS.  
DON JUAN

I felt like the cat who'd got the cream. To celebrate, I took myself to Paris with my two idiot friends, after promising Mignonette that I would not go to Zizou's. When I suggested that it would be strictly for sentimental reasons she threatened my most treasured possession with a knife. Anyway, I was true to my word; I did not go to Zizou's, I went to Regine's. I don't like her establishment quite as much as Zizou's because I was thrown out once in my wild youth, but after nearly eight years, Madame Regine welcomed me, my face, and my money back fondly.

I returned home fairly sober and went in search of my wife and baby. They were playing on a blanket in the shade with Lili, the Ice Princess, and another friend of theirs, Therese. I was in a fabulous mood, being fifteen thousand francs to the good, and bounced and tickled Chretien while I caught up on all the feminine news. They had been shopping, so I was not fifteen thousand francs to the good after all, but it seemed that Simone might be thawing. She did not speak to me, but the other girls laughed freely enough with her. The wedding was turning into a great to do (from which my son and I would be excused). After I got the news, I scandalized my sister and her friends by asking them to keep Chretien so Mignonette and I could play hide and seek in the woods.

-0-0-0-0-

Aunt Giry called on me and promptly took me to task for antagonizing Erik. He was no one to fool with, she insisted. Well, neither am I. Aunt Giry could not stop looking at Chretien. Happy little drooler that he was, he insisted on going to her, and she nearly smiled at him. Mignonette mentioned that he was already taking after me and was sure to be a ladies' man. Which just proves my point that if I can only get between a woman's legs, she'll completely forget about my face.

"Listen, Aunt Giry, it's like this: he wants what I've got, and I want information. I'm not about to spend five years passing notes back and forth with him like a schoolboy. He can name the place if he's such a recluse; I'll meet him in whatever cave he chooses, but I want a meeting, just him and me. He knows I have other things now–I'll make a list of everything for you to carry back to him. We can discuss other things besides the Sonnets if he wants, but it depends upon his cooperation. You tell him."

"You wouldn't have to spend five years. Write all your questions, I'll wait. I'll carry them to him right now, and I promise I'll bring the answers right back to you. I'll wait again to get your responses and I'll do that as much as you like. You don't need to see him!" she insisted.

"What are you so afraid of if we should meet? Why do you protect him so?" I repeated.

"Because no good can come of this," she replied sadly.

"You keep saying that."

"Just give me your list and I'll go," she resigned.

After Aunt Giry left, I told Mignonette about Mother's trunk and what I'd learned. I'm sure she didn't understand why it was so important to me to know what had passed between Mother and Erik, but she understood that it was important, and that was sufficient for her. I was grateful for that.

-0-0-0-0-

Mignonette and I continued to fight a lot. When we weren't doing our business, we were fighting. She was a feisty little bitch who didn't put up with my moods at all, which went a long way toward making the house a battleground. She was a wife now, by God, and I guess she felt she'd tolerated enough in her life that she was determined not to suffer any nonsense from me. It wasn't usually about anything important, just one of us would snip at the other, and the other couldn't let it lay. It kept things interesting, but making up was always fun.

So, once again life was going fairly well for me. But as I say, I have always been a perverse bastard, and I seem to have an in-born character flaw that won't let me leave anything alone. I just can't stand it if I'm not stirring the pot…and I can't keep away from women.

I went to visit Lucie one evening while Mignonette gave Chretien a bath. It still hurt, but in a funny sort of way I was fond of it. I knew it would always hurt; it was a comfort somehow to feel that ache and remember how I was loved.

It was a pretty night with an almost full moon, and I went through the kitchen garden. The Ice Princess was sitting on the bench, wrapped in a shawl. She seemed almost guilty to be caught out, apologized for being there, and started to leave. I told her no, that I was just passing through on my way home, and that she should remain.

"It is a peaceful place, a beautiful night to sit quietly and think," I remarked, moving off.

"I wish I could stop thinking," she sighed. I was not certain she was speaking to me, but it would have been rude to ignore her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said I wish I could stop thinking. I'm worried…nevermind." Ah, cold feet. I should say so, if I were marrying someone old enough to be my father and then some.

"It is a normal thing to be worried just before your wedding day," I chuckled and propped my foot up on the bench. "I ran away, I was so scared."

"But it turned out alright." Simone insisted.

"Yes. It turned out beautifully." I admitted.

After a moment's silence, she asked, "How old are you?"

"Twenty five."

"You've lived…a lot. Before you were married," she glanced toward me for confirmation. She looked like a fairy in the moonlight, with her pale skin and eyes.

"I suppose Lili's told tales," I admitted. Before I was married, hell. I _still_ lived every chance I got.

"I've never even had a proper kiss, and I'm about to be married forever," she murmured.

"I'm sure it's not as bad as all that, now. Raoul's kissed you."

"The Comte kisses my hand and my forehead. He's very polite." Clearly she was disappointed that he was so polite.

"Excuse me, but it seems to me that if you want him to kiss you properly, you should not call him 'Comte'," I suggested.

"Oh?" Simone seemed surprised by this idea. "But he is…"

"Yes, of course," I agreed. I sat beside her. Her eyes are beautiful at night. "But you're a very formal young lady, if I may say so. If you want a gentleman to kiss you, you must offer some encouragement, let him know that he will be welcome."

"I wouldn't know how," she replied sadly.

"You do," I assured her. "You smile; when you look at him, you make your eyes soft and think admiring thoughts…" Why do I always find myself telling puppies how to behave around the opposite sex?

"My thoughts will show?" Simone seemed worried by this idea.

"I think in a general way, for instance, if you like him, it can show."

"How?"

"In your eyes, as I said. And perhaps when you speak to him you find a way to rest your hand on his arm for a moment, and you speak his name softly…and in this way you can let a gentleman know that it would be very nice if he should happen to kiss you," I smiled with my eyes. She was looking at me more directly, and I didn't want to scare her. She sighed and thought for a bit.

"Well, it's too late now…isn't it, Gaston?" Soft eyes, hand floating lightly on my sleeve, hint of a smile.

I kissed her, I did. Once, twice; open your mouth, Sweetheart, that's right; cool hands on my neck; kisses, nibbles on her throat; slipped my hand inside her bodice, snug fit, just so; if we slide this blouse down just a bit…aah, yes. Big perky nipples, but built like a boy; this is not a comfortable bench. Let's see what's under the skirt, shall we? Nice, taut bottom, a bit small for me. Just as I told Mignonette, like a post fence; bony hips, have to take her from behind or get stabbed to death. I was wrong about the frostbite, though; it's quite tropical in this little jungle. Juicy; you're more than willing, aren't you Sweetheart, but we mustn't take anything that Raoul would miss. Here, lay down, Sweetheart, scoot down here; legs like so, on Gaston's shoulders; good. This is absurd; on my knees in the kitchen garden with a dress over my head. I don't know how I get myself into…mmmm.

Violent reactions, you'd think my tongue was burning her little bud; no wonder Victor is addicted to virgins. Gently, Sweetheart, Gaston must breathe…oh, here we go; better give her a finger to bite.

I sucked on my lip and helped my future stepmother to sit up. Her eyelids were fluttering and she grabbed my shirt and kissed the hell out of me. "Is that me? Is that what I taste like?" she sounded breathy and maybe a little faintish. Please don't faint, Sweetheart. Gaston does not want to have to carry you into the house.

"Yes, Sweetheart, you're a luscious little girl. Simone, Gaston needs to run, and so do you. We'll be missed soon," I worried. More kisses. Raoul, you bastard; the skinny little tart is insatiable.

"When can we–" It was a surgical procedure to get her arms off my neck.

"Let's get through the wedding, Sweetheart; remember Raoul? You have a nice wedding, a nice wedding trip, and Gaston will see Simone when she comes home, alright?" She nodded obediently. I checked her for steadiness, and she seemed pretty much recovered, everything intact. Right, off you go.

Another good thing about my face is it's very difficult for me to look guilty. Of course, I rarely am guilty; that may have something to do with it. I didn't know what was going on with me all of a sudden. I had more free women than I could use, almost. Nice problem, and one I never imagined I'd have. I had a lot to work out on Mignonette that night.

Simone and Raoul were married in the social event of the season, according to Lili and Mignonette. Chretien and I went swimming, talked about women and took a nap under a tree. You may wonder why, now that I'm able to do so, I don't invade one of these affairs and terrify all the guests. I don't know. I guess because I don't want to be anywhere I'm not wanted. Bugger them all.

-0-0-0-0-

Aunt Giry delivered me a note from Erik.

Don Juan,  
I have knowledge of a letter written to me which was never sent; do you have it? I will meet you personally for it and the Sonnets.

Yr obdt svt  
E.

I asked Aunt Giry what letter this could be.

"Your mother told me years ago that she had written Erik a letter; she claimed she wanted me to deliver it, but whenever I mentioned it, she said 'Not yet.'" She shrugged. "She probably destroyed it."

Shit. I took everything out of the trunk, shook it out, all the sheet music, all the sketches. Nothing. No letter. I decided I would ask Father if there was anything more of Mother's anywhere when he returned from his honeymoon. How I'd explain why I wanted to know, and what it was, I had no idea, but I had time to work that out. I penned a letter back to the Phantom for Aunt Giry to take with her.

Erik,  
I have searched my things and find no letter, sadly. At present, I am not able to go through any of Christine's things which are not in my immediate possession, but will do so at earliest convenience to attempt to locate the letter. Perhaps Christine destroyed it?

Regards,  
Don Juan

Mignonette was quiet all afternoon after Aunt Giry left. Sometimes she got in a mood, so I ignored it. After Chretien went to sleep, she asked me if I thought Raoul would actually give me such a letter if he had it. I didn't know; I had no idea what it could say. Still she was quiet, and finally she walked over to the window and looked out at the night.

"If your Mother really meant to give that letter to you, Gaston–since she gave you so many other things concerning the Phantom–maybe it would be best not to trouble your Father with it now…starting on a new life as he is." She said, hesitantly.

I was furious at what I was hearing. "You mean I should just give it up? After all this time, give it up, because he's got a skinny new toy and doesn't want to be reminded of my mother?" I shouted.

"No, I'm saying...maybe it would be best if you didn't trouble him about the search. Maybe you could look for the letter…without bothering him." Sly little whore; a man could get to love a girl like her.

-0-0-0-0-

In a few days Mignonette and Lili went for a shopping trip and I went snooping in the big house. In the attic, I found clothing of Mother's; nothing else. In Mother's closet, I found a box that looked promising, but it was all mementoes of us children: baby shoes, baptismal certificates, baby teeth wrapped in paper, carefully marked and dated; our first toys and clothes; silver monogrammed cups. Another box of stuff concerning Mother and Father. More dried roses, for God's sake. Their wedding announcement; the marriage certificate, duly signed by the priest; a scarf; some papers relating to Father's military service; a Chagny family tree. My brother and sister were on it; I was not. I didn't have the luxury of time to deal with that new wound, so I pressed on.

I even went through Father's desk. Nothing: the man has no secrets. No letters, no notes from mistresses, no dirty postcards. I left his office positive that he did not have Mother's letter to Erik.

I wandered back to Mother's room and plopped on the bed, depressed, ready to go home and get drunk. Sitting there, I stared at her nightstand; it looked just as it always had. Globe lamp with roses painted on it; crocheted doily beneath; little porcelain bird figurine. Her precious Bible. I picked it up; it was like touching Mother's hand to touch her Bible. The pages were as thin as onion skin and smelled of Mother's perfume. I didn't want to cry. I jumped up to run home, fumbled and dropped the Bible. A creamy envelope fluttered from the pages and skittered across the floor. I stared at it as if it was a poisonous viper. I restored the Bible to its rightful place and reached for the envelope with a trembling hand. It was sealed. There was no address or designation of any kind on the front.

Was it right to open this? What if it was Erik's letter? What if it wasn't?


	8. Chapter 8

_My precious Erik,_

_I cannot live in the dark. I cannot hide. I want to live with you in the light, and raise my babies in the sunshine. I have never been ashamed of you, and you have nothing to be ashamed of._

_You said you would do anything for me, but I asked you to return to the light, and you could not. I do not blame you, and I am not angry. I grieve, I grieve, Erik. I know what you will say: that you asked me to stay with you in your castle, and I could not. So here we are, my dear love._

_When I left you, I gave up everything I adored in this world, and I was not strong enough to do it alone. That is why I have gone with Raoul. He is a very good man. He will care for me and my babies. I love him enough to make a good marriage. He deserves much more, but he tells me he will be satisfied with the life we will have together._

_Erik, all that remains is for you and me to forgive each other. I have forgiven you everything. Please, forgive me._

_Think of me fondly._

_Always, your  
Christine_

I read Mother's letter over and over again. I couldn't stop thinking about them–Christine and Erik, desperately in love. She wouldn't live under the Opera House, and he wouldn't live above ground, so she left him. It was heartbreaking, and for my father, too. He knew, and he accepted what Mother could give him.

Mother said she was never ashamed of Erik, and that he had nothing to be ashamed of. It was the strangest feeling to read those words; I remember Mother saying the same thing to me. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, Gaston. I have never been ashamed of you." Mother seemed to suggest that it was Erik's shame which kept him underground. Since the murders at the Opera House, I could see why he would hide. But Father said he'd always been an eccentric recluse. Why? What was he ashamed of?

I had Erik's letter. I could meet him and ask my questions–different questions than I'd originally had--if I could still bear to. I felt ashamed of having read the letter; rather, I felt ashamed to face Erik, and having him know that I'd read the letter. It was like watching lovers.

I went home and sat with my knowledge.

-0-0-0-0-

The Comte and Comtesse de Chagny returned home looking happy together, if surprisingly well-rested. They were not home two days before the blushing bride tracked me down. She brought me up short around the side of my little house–and Mignonette right inside! Not good; I had to establish some ground rules before we both perished. I had hoped that she'd come back hopelessly devoted to Raoul, but that apparently was not the case.

"Simone, not like this," I hissed. "Go to the stable and wait, for God's sake."

She all but attacked me when I walked in the door. I pulled her into a clean, empty stall and knelt down to give us at least a chance of escaping undiscovered. Her arms took a death grip on my neck and she attacked my mouth. Little skinny thing knocked me off balance and fell on top of me, stuck her tongue damn near down my throat.

"Simone, Simone, wait, Sweetheart. What about your husband?"

"Gaston…" She was coming out of her corset and blouse and tugging at my shirt. She bent down to kiss me again and straddled my hips, making suggestions with her movements. What was I supposed to do? I slid my hands up under her skirts; nothing to impede my progress. The naughty girl had planned ahead. She loosened my trousers, fished my prick out, and made blissful sounds as she gave it a good yank. Either she was a girl who just naturally loved a good shag or I needed to have more respect for Raoul, I was not sure which. Yet.

Simone was not interested in wasting time discussing her wedding trip. Very limber skinny girl, she planted her feet flat on either side of my hips, and just squatted right down on the thing. Amazing view, marvelous; I watched her get me all slick and juicy. She leaned back and rested her hands on my legs; it was an odd sensation to feel myself bent the wrong way. I grabbed her hips to prevent her going too wild like that. Didn't want to come to any grief. After grinding against me in delicious slow circles, she leaned forward again, bouncing and squealing. What is it with me and the noisy ones? I shoved a couple fingers in her mouth.

"Wait, wait, Simone," I suggested. "Hop off–it's alright, promise. Turn around, hands and knees, Sweetheart." I slithered in like a bad dog and reached around to give her a little help up front. It didn't seem particularly necessary, judging from her meowing, but I try to be considerate, even as I'm abusing my newlywed stepmother in a barn stall.

We were ungodly noisy. If there was anyone even passing the stable, we were discovered. In addition to all the vocals, there was the furious slapping sound as I pulled her back toward me even as I slammed into her. She wriggled and fussed to let me know that she wanted to finish with me on top. Fine; that was accomplished acrobatically and we were back at it. Her feet in the air, nails digging into my ass; heavenly, she was a mad cunt. When she got her end off, she bit the hell out of my shoulder; alright, at least it kept her quiet. Can't imagine Raoul with a screamer; he's such a tidy fellow–but that's what comes of being a good boy, you never know what you're getting until it's too late.

I shot my brains out, I was sure of it. It went all over the stall--because pulling out is better than nothing–and the Comtesse applauded with glee as if it was a fireworks display. No more of that; next time I would be better prepared, since I knew what she was up to, and bring a packet of caution with me.

We dressed and helped each other get all the straw off. While that was going on, I established some ground rules about her walking up to the front door and asking if I could come out and play. She swore that she'd be more careful, but that she'd been dying for me since you-know-when; it just wasn't the same with Raoul. Ah, yes, well, you may be my father's wife, but I don't want to hear about my father, thanks. We agreed to have a chat near the end of the week and see what sort of schedule developed, and made a staggered exit from the stable.

-0-0-0-0-

I brooded and drank a lot of cognac. For a change, Mignonette left me alone. She asked me if I'd found anything; I said I didn't want to talk about it, and she let me sulk. I suppose she knew I'd talk eventually.

I didn't know what to think about Mother anymore. She was everything to me, and yet…what she'd done to Raoul. How did I reconcile that with the woman I knew? Anyway, if it was alright with Father, why should I care?

As I sunk deeper into my mood, I got cynical again. Cynical about Mother, cynical about myself, cynical about life. Condemning my mother for her treatment of my father, while I was meeting his wife almost weekly for…anything. I went to Paris, lost money, won money, bought women, stayed drunk, got into fights, got arrested, beat up policemen, staggered home when I was exhausted. Mignonette put me to bed long enough to revive me; then the harangue began, and I ran away again. My only joy was my fat happy baby. He loved me like Lucie did, and I was determined to love him as Mother had loved me.

It was because of Chretien that I sobered up again. I awoke from a major debauch with no memory of having come home and the boy was passed out asleep, drooling all over my chest. I enjoyed his comfortable weight on me. His curls looked like his grandmother's, but his eyes were Lucie's. Sound asleep though he was, I had the urge to sing to him. When I paused I noticed that Mignonette was watching from the door. I braced myself for her onslaught, but she just gave a little smile and walked away.

It wasn't long before she was screaming at me again, though, and I called her a few zesty names and started collecting my things. My chubby shadow grabbed my leg and stood on my foot, wailing and refusing to let me go.

"Get him off me," I growled at Mignonette. She pried the baby away, but she could barely keep a grip on him the way he threw himself around and screamed for me. When I passed by on the horse, he tried to run after me and fell, of course. I turned back and collected him from the ground, dusted him off. His little face was dirty and streaked with tears; he pushed it right into my face and grabbed handfuls of my hair.

"Gasson, no, no!" he insisted. His tears kept coming, breaking my heart.

"Shall I stay here with Chretien, then?"

"Mm, something something something Chretien," he snuffled. He used my coat for a handkerchief and wiped his nose off.

"Shall we go for a ride?"

"Mm." That pleased him. We rode around the property and he pointed out, well, everything.

"Tree!"  
"Tumble!" --the dog's name was 'Trouble', but it didn't matter which spaniel it was, they were all 'Tumble'.  
"Rao! Lili!" --the big house.  
"Tsable!"  
"Mao mao!" --barn cats.  
"Fowers!"  
"Nonette! Chretien! Gasson!" --our house.  
"Bye!" --the road off the property.

After our ride, I sat outside the stable for a good hour while he dragged a long-suffering barn cat all over. Those hateful, mangy cats let the baby do anything to them. If I got within a meter of one, it ran; if I cornered one, it'd slice me to ribbons. With Chretien, it buzzed with pleasure.

"Mao mao something something Chretien. Something boo-boo something," he nodded at me very seriously.

"Oh, yes, absolutely," I agreed. Mignonette understood most of this babble; it amazed me. How does a whore learn baby talk? Must come with breasts.

"Mm." He was satisfied and finally permitted me to carry him home. He was asleep before we got there. Even in sleep he wouldn't let me go, so I had to sit and rock him while he slept on me. Mignonette brought me some lemonade; I pinched her bottom in thanks.

"If it wasn't for the baby I'd slap your face," she snapped, trying to sound angrier than she was.

"If it wasn't for the baby I'd make you sit on it," I replied. I waggled my tongue at her for good measure. We took care of some business later which put her in a much better frame of mind.

-0-0-0-0-

I didn't know what to say to Erik, but I knew that I had to give him his letter. The longer I held onto it, the more it troubled me: I felt I had no right to it, or the knowledge it had imparted to me. Mother hadn't given me the letter; whether she'd forgotten or not, I didn't know, and yet what did she want me to know, if not this?

ERIK: SEND COURIER. DON JUAN

I made a copy of Mother's letter and put it in my trunk. I no longer knew what I would ask Erik; I thought I knew the answer to my original question: 'What was between Christine and you?' Still, I hoped he would say something to make sense of it all for me. I wanted to return to believing that my parents were a perfect couple; that the Phantom was a madman and Mother was an angel.

When Aunt Giry arrived, I gave her Mother's letter wrapped securely and a letter from me, advising that Erik should read my letter first.

_Erik,  
I am forwarding what I believe to be the letter you seek. I located it unopened in Christine's Bible. I regret the necessity of opening and reading what was intended for your eyes alone, but I trust you appreciate my lack of alternatives in the present circumstances. Please be assured that you can rely on my discretion._

_If I were in your position, I would appreciate the opportunity to read and consider Christine's letter in private; therefore, I forward it to you without insisting upon a meeting. When you feel ready, I trust that you will contact me to fulfill your part of the bargain. I have the Sonnets for you, should you still wish to have them._

_Regards,  
Gaston de Chagny_

I didn't believe I was gambling to send the letter to Erik, trusting him to meet with me later. Anyway, I could not sit across from the man and watch him read that letter; it was a question of human dignity. I didn't consider him a madman anymore, and I felt certain he'd respond favorably to my gesture of respect.

I thought about Erik that night, when I was certain he must've received the letter; alone in the dark under the Opera House. Oh yes, since reading Mother's letter I was certain he was still down there somewhere. I thought about Lucie sending me such a letter, and reading it after twenty five years. I could not imagine what I would feel. For myself, I felt glad at having found it and being able to give it to him, but I also felt a deep sadness, because I knew someone was grieving all over again that night. I knew what that was like…poor Erik. All he had of his love was a letter; I had my son.


	9. Chapter 9

I was on a blanket in a barn stall doing double duty. Simone had invited her friend Therese to join our party some weeks ago; slowly I was making my way through all my sister's friends. They would not marry me, or admit to speaking to me, but none had a problem with an afternoon of mutual abuse now and then. I wished my Mignonette would join in; she used to be game for such things, but since she became respectable, she had lost her sense of humor.

Anyway, Therese had just recovered from a severe tongue lashing, and she and Simone were switching places. I heard voices elsewhere in the stable and extricated myself. I slipped my trousers on–not so easy locating them–and crept out to locate the intruders. I had satisfied myself that the sounds were coming from the loft, and was headed back to herd the ladies out when I recognized my little sister's voice. In the loft. Now, there is only one reason for a girl's voice to be coming from a loft; but if it is my sister, there is no reason. I crept up the ladder stealthily, ready to do murder.

"I heard something, Alain. Maybe we should go back…" I knew this Alain, Viscomte Something Something, brother of one of Lili's friends I'd not had yet; Julie, I think. Outrageously handsome family, in a dark way. They were all built tall and slender, with long dark lashes and devastating brown eyes. No matter, he would make a handsome corpse. I peered over the top rung of the ladder. Bastard had his tongue down my baby sister's throat and his hand in her bodice.

"Right, Alain, maybe you should go back." I snarled.

Simultaneous cries "Oh, Gaston!" and "SHIT!" You can work out who was who.

"Swords, guns, or fists, Sir?" I continued.

"I, ah, meant no harm…Gaston," Alain stumbled. He took note of my dishabille: trousers; no shoes or shirt. He assumed his normal haughty mien. "How do you come to be here, if I may presume?"

"You may. You interrupted my own little ménage downstairs. Now, how will you die?"

"Gaston," my precious Lili had gotten to her feet. "Gaston, he's spoken to Father, just now. It's alright." Oh.

"Oh." I dropped my fists. "You mean you're marrying him?" Lili nodded happily.

"Oh, well then," I slapped Alain's arm and gripped his fist heartily. He was nonplussed; I reckon he felt a beating might still be in order. If I were a normal brother, I suppose that would be so. I scooped Lili up in the air and gave her a big squeeze. "You never tell me anything anymore!" I scolded.

"I can never find you anymore," she replied, beaming. She was in love.

"Ah. Check the stable," I winked at her. "Happy?" She nodded. "We'll talk later?" She nodded again.

I drew Alain aside. He remained noticeably tense. "Look here, brother, I would be grateful for the opportunity to wrap things up downstairs; an hour should suffice. Do you, ah, have everything you require here?" I asked pointedly.

"Hm?" Dunce. I pressed a packet of caution into his hand and raised a warning eyebrow.

"Oh! Ah, yes, Gaston, many thanks." He smiled, still baffled. With that, I made my escape back to Simone and Therese. Didn't hear much from the lovebirds; not that I would have with a pair of thighs covering my ears.

-0-0-0-0-

"Yeeooowww!" I awoke the next morning and pissed fire. Shit, I knew what that meant, but I intended to deny reality awhile longer. No one rushes to the kind of beating I knew I was going to get from Mignonette. Besides, I wanted to have a chat with Lili. She was thinking the same thing; I met her on the path from the main house. She took my hand and we strolled to the garden.

"So?" I opened.

"So, you nearly scared Alain to death," she scolded.

"How was I supposed to know? My baby sister's voice in the loft, my God," I explained.

"He's been very gallant," she assured me primly.

"Mm, couldn't wait another minute," I teased.

"Stop it, I'm not telling you a thing! You never told me anything." Lili replied.

"The Viscomte is good to you?" I asked. Lili nodded. "I'll miss you," I confessed, kissing her forehead.

"I know, Gaston, that is the only thing. If only Alain could come here. He has purchased a house in the city for us. I've never lived in the city…" she mused.

"Marvelous, I'll come see you when I'm on a raid," I tried to cheer her up. She smacked me half-heartedly. "How is he in the–um, loft?"

"Alain had a marvelous time. I thought it was a bit silly, really, and not especially comfortable. Perhaps I shall prefer a bed. I liked the first part quite well, all the kissing and such, but, you know, that other thing, not so much," she replied candidly.

I nodded. "I think most girls aren't mad about that other thing at first. Yea, you should talk to Mignon now. Or Simone."

"Simone?"

"Well, she's married, isn't she?"

"I don't want to know about Father," Lili crinkled her nose; my feelings exactly. "She told me some things when they first got home, and that was enough." Suddenly she remembered something. "And what were you doing in the stable anyway? What if Mignonette found out?"

"She'd cut it off," I shrugged.

"Gaston! Don't even say that," she was horrified. "Who were you with?" she squeezed my arm.

"Why, you little gossip; I won't tell you," I replied. "Actually, I can't; she's married."

"Oh, Gaston!" she was dismayed. "Why do you do this?"

"Lili, I know you won't believe me, because I always get into trouble, but I swear, I swear, the last two women I've been mixed up with came after me. I don't know why, I wish I did. They were the ones in the stable yesterday."

"Two?" Lili gasped.

"Anyway, I never chased these girls, Lili, but listen, I'm only human. I can't help it, I love women, I just love them, and when a beautiful girl is undressing herself and kissing me–"

"Gaston, you mean to say that Mignonette doesn't excite you? I can't believe that."

"It's not that, Lili…but what if you had to eat only strawberries every day, forever? Strawberries are wonderful, but nothing but strawberries forever–"

"Do you think every man is like you? Do you think Alain will tire of strawberries also?" she worried.

"He'd better not," I grumbled.

"What about Father?"

"I'm not like Father, Lili, not a bit," I admitted.

"Gaston…" Lili shook her head.

"I was true to Lucie," I confessed. "Shit," I said, suddenly feeling like it.

"I'm sorry, Gaston." She hugged me.

"Don't mind me, Little One. Listen, if you love each other, you hold on tight, always, and don't let go. And be happy, I want you to be happy," I patted her back the way I did Chretien's.

"I know."

-0-0-0-0-

Life went to hell again. We went to Sunday dinner at the big house, and Father looked as angry as that day he told me I would marry Lucie. Simone had big red puffy eyes. The honeymoon was definitely over; I suspected that Raoul was pissing fire. I had a moment of terror when I wondered if Simone had fingered me; but no. Father was not angry at me.  
This was also the Sunday that Lili chose to tell Father that she wanted me and Chretien to be at her wedding. I really appreciated the gesture, and I understood it was done out of her dear love for me, but Lili's timing could not have been worse. Mother never even got Father to agree to that. Of course the whole charade was absurd, because everyone gossiped, and everyone knew I existed, but as long as I did not exist officially, no one could say much of anything. Nobility–aptly named?

On a brighter note, Aunt Giry appeared with a letter from the erstwhile Phantom.

_Monsieur de Chagny,_

_Thank you. I have not been the beneficiary of much compassion in my life, and your kind gesture moved me deeply. I am indebted to you._

_I have the honor to invite you to my home at your convenience. Will you join me for a meal? As you have guessed, I live below the Opera House. It was you who searched for me several years ago, was it not? Please send me word of your intention to call and I will put myself at your disposal. Mme Giry will guide you safely to me. You are most welcome._

_Yr obdt svt  
E._

I hollered; I jumped for joy; I wept. I talked to Mother–I prayed to Mother. I felt over the moon and ill at the same time. I felt like I used to as a child on my birthday, my mind reeling at what could be inside the beautiful boxes. I penned lists of questions, then lists of questions based on answers, and I tore them all up. Finally I realized that all I could do was meet Erik, ask him to tell me about him and Mother, and see where it led. I felt willing to answer his questions, too, if he should ask me about her. I found myself wishing I could give him something of hers, to let him know that she had been happy, though she had never forgotten him.

I was so excited that I almost forgot that I should warn him about my face. It would probably be an especially huge shock for him to discover that his beloved, beautiful Christine had given birth to…me. But surely Aunt Giry had told him everything about me. The anticipation and the trepidation were killing me equally. I could not wait any longer; I placed the ad.

ERIK: IF FRIDAY EVENING IS CONVENIENT, PLEASE SEND YOUR GUIDE.  
DON JUAN


	10. Chapter 10

I told Mignonette where I was going, made myself as presentable as possible, tucked the Sonnets into my breast pocket and went to meet Aunt Giry. We rendezvoused at the Opera Café. I smiled nervously; Aunt Giry looked like she'd been sucking lemons.

"Gaston, this is your last chance to let this be. For the love of God–"

"Aunt Giry, I appreciate your concern," I replied ironically, "But I want to do this. Now, if you don't mind, I prefer not to keep him waiting." As we crossed the square, I asked, "Which reminds me; I feel a bit strange calling him 'Erik' now that we are meeting. What is his last name?"

"He has never mentioned one," she replied, "I don't think he knows." How could he not know his name? We made our way through the theater, past the familiar places, into the places known only to a few. We came to a staircase that wound down and around for an incredibly long time. "There are many ways in and out," Aunt Giry remarked.

"You told him about me? Prepared him for–"

"No, I didn't. It will be dark in the caverns, Gaston," Aunt Giry interrupted. "You will not see each other until you reach his home." We took a turn off the staircase which would have been easy to miss. Aunt Giry unlocked a door; I noticed she had quite a collection of keys. It was black on the other side of the door. Aunt Giry indicated that I should step through. Just ahead I saw the contours of a man in a cloak; I could make out no features, just dark and light.

"Thank you, Madame. I will see Monsieur de Chagny to the surface when he leaves." She looked as if she was dying to say something, but she left us quietly.

"Welcome to my home, Monsieur," Erik said. His voice was deep and musical. "Please watch your step; the way I take you is fairly smooth. I make you to be a shade taller than I. You should have no trouble." We walked in silence; occasionally he would make mention of a turn, or that I should watch my step. I could just make out his outline ahead of me. It was hard to judge the time, but I guess we walked about ten minutes. I began to see a glow of lights up ahead. We stepped onto an elevated walkway over some water. At the end of this walkway, he stepped down into a vast cavern lit by magnificent candelabra.

"Before you face me, Monsieur," I warned, "I must caution you that I am disturbing to look at." Erik was visibly startled by my words. Time seemed to stand still. He whirled around with surprising grace, and in an instant I was face to face with the man in the mask. He was powerfully built, and that part of his face which was exposed was handsome. His eyes were deep-set and fiery. I guessed that he was older than Father; how much it was impossible to say.

Erik only looked at me for a moment; he stared in disbelief, grimaced, and turned away. His shoulders began to tremble, and he emitted the eeriest, most inhuman sound I'd ever heard: something between a howl and a moan…he was calling Mother's name: "Christine, Christine, Christine…" over and over. He sunk to his knees and mourned, sobbing.

I had never provoked such a reaction in anyone, ever. My face had frightened and horrified before, but I didn't even know how to describe Erik's reaction. I also didn't know how to feel, other than monstrous. I could do nothing but stand and wait, numbly.

Finally Erik's self-control returned. "Please excuse me," he sighed, getting to his feet. Without looking at me again, he disappeared into a room just off the area we occupied. I had to wait and hope he'd return; I could never find my way out. I sat on the sofa and struggled to keep my mind off what had just happened by looking around. I saw his piano, sheet music written in the now-familiar red ink, sketches, paintings–all familiar from the contents of Mother's trunk. In the area where I sat there were shelves full of books, comfortable furniture, and an exquisite Persian carpet. I looked for a cigar box; smoking would have settled my nerves, but I didn't find one. The place didn't smell like he smoked. Actually, the place was neater than mine ever was in my bachelor days, and I had servants.

Erik reappeared and startled me; I leapt to my feet. He appeared much calmer. He poured us wine; I'd have preferred something stronger. I could feel him studying me as he handed me the glass, but I couldn't bring myself to hold my head up. I was still smarting from his reaction.

"I apologize, Monsieur," I began, "it is always difficult to prepar–"

Erik cut me off with a wave of his hand. "Why do you suppose I wear a mask, Gaston?"

'Gaston'–his familiarity struck me.

"You're…reclusive. When you must be seen, to preserve your anonymity, you–"

He interrupted me with a single bark of laughter. "No," he replied. From the corner of my eye, I saw that he held the mask in his hand, waiting. Drawing a breath to steady myself, I looked up at Erik.

Just before I raised my head, I had a fleeting thought that I would recognize him; the mystery of the Opera Ghost would be solved. But…not like this. The face I looked into was my face; older, slightly different, but there could be no mistake. He must've worn a wig before; his hair was gray. I don't know how to describe the journey my mind took at that moment.

That face…My face…Chretien…Mother…Father knew, he saw me every day and he knew…Philippe, Lili…Aunt Giry…'he knows nothing of you'…I know nothing of myself now…'I have never been ashamed of you, Gaston'…Erik and Mother…Erik…'Your father. Forgive him, Gaston. Promise.'

When I returned to myself, Erik was sitting in the chair across from me, watching the thoughts play across my face–our face. He leaned forward and refilled my glass. I hadn't even noticed I'd drained it. We drained that bottle in silence.

"Would you like to see my wine cellar?" he asked. It was such a bizarre invitation under the circumstances that I followed him. The cellar was huge and well-stocked. I don't know very much about wine, but he invited me to choose our next bottle and seemed pleased with my selection.

"One of a very few luxuries I permit myself," he mused. He held his glass up in toast. "Your Mother," he said softly.

After we drank, I managed to find my voice. "You didn't know." He shook his head no, closing his eyes briefly. I thought he might say something, but the moment passed. I remembered the Sonnets and held them out to him. He accepted the book and was lost in it for several minutes. He touched it as he might have touched Mother's face. When he looked at me, he was visibly moved; a single tear traveled down his cheek. He seemed embarrassed by it, and tried to smile and nod his thanks to me.

He gave a big, cleansing sigh. "What can I answer for you?" He regarded me tight-lipped. Obviously he was allowing me to invade his privacy because he felt obliged to do so. It was clearly difficult for him.

"I hardly know now," I confessed. Erik nodded. Still he watched and waited. He can be very still. Suddenly, a question occurred to me: "What…is my name?"

"I don't know," he replied frankly. "I'm sorry; I don't think I've ever known." He must have seen my confusion. "I was not wanted," he explained. "My mother had as little to do with me as possible, and I was on my own at an early age."

"I can't imagine," I confessed.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said sincerely. "Will you eat? It's no longer as warm as I'd like, but that can be remedied. Come along, it shouldn't go to waste simply because we've had the shock of our lives."

"I didn't expect you'd be so congenial," I confessed.

"I didn't expect you'd be so handsome," he replied.

Erik reheated the food efficiently. I tried briefly to help, but the kitchen was small and I felt superfluous. The meal was marvelous: duck in a fruit sauce, turnips and potatoes, carrots with onions and dark, crunchy bread. I noticed that Erik did not eat much; he watched me pack it in with amusement. We agreed to wait for dessert and moved away from the table. I felt strangely comfortable with Erik, considering. I located a smidgen of courage. "Will you tell me about my mother?" I asked.

He smiled. "I have not seen your mother in twenty six years. I thought you might tell me."

Irritating. He was playing with me. Alright, if he wanted, I would say it. "Will you tell me about my mother and you?"

"Ah. At the risk of sounding obtuse, I should think it's obvious." Damn him.

"You loved each other." Brilliant, Gaston. Erik raised an eyebrow. I pressed him. "What happened? Why didn't you go into the light with her?"

"Why didn't she stay here with me?" He sounded defensive.

"Because it's no way to live. People live in the light." He looked unconvinced. "I live in the light," I added.

"Obviously you had the benefit of an upbringing which convinced you that you have a right to exist." When he said these things so candidly, I got the sense that he was trying to shock me and put me off-balance. "Your mother loved you."

I nodded. "Very much. She always told me she was not ashamed of me. I never covered my face. She made sure I was treated just like my–her other children." Half-siblings, I guess they were now. "The only thing was that Philippe–the younger son–was named vicomte."

Erik nodded thoughtfully. After a moment, improbably, he started talking about Mother and him.

"Your mother was a lonely orphan when she came here. I watched her grow; she never entirely fit in with the rest of the Opera rats. I suppose I felt some kinship; I became concerned for her happiness. Then I heard her sing." Erik paused. He seemed at a loss for words.

"I loved her. I wanted her with me. It was pure; there was nothing bestial about it," he insisted, angrily. "I spoke to her, hidden. I taught her…" he closed his eyes, dreamily. Suddenly they snapped open. "She became convinced that I was the Angel of Music her father had promised to send her. I let her believe; I meant her no harm," he regarded me defiantly, as if he expected to be accused. "I only wanted to hear her, to help her, to give her my music. I sang for her. In time, we sang together." He wet his lips, considering. "I don't expect you to understand this…it was…a deeply intimate act…to sing with Christine." He sighed, struggling for control as tears threatened again. "She wanted to see me. I denied her as long as I could, but when she pleaded…" he shrugged. "She later told me that she had been relieved to learn that I was a man; that she had fallen in love with a being of flesh and blood." He met my gaze steadily. "Yes. She loved me, long before I ever dared to dream it."

"We spent time together, here, singing; reading; talking. She tried to persuade me to permit her to unmask me; I always refused. One day she took me by surprise and removed the mask. I was desolate; I knew that everything was lost, but she told me to trust her. She looked at me, but nothing terrible happened. She didn't shrink from me; she touched me. She kissed me. Do you understand? Do you?" he demanded. "My mother refused to kiss me!" His gaze was intense, but I refused to look away. He seemed to expect a response from me, but I had a huge lump in my throat. What could his life have been?

Finally, Erik smiled and poured us more wine. "I see your mother in you. You are strong-willed. Stubborn," he chuckled and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees in an incredibly informal way–for him. "I'll wager you have a lovely voice as well." He was amusing himself; I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be amused or not.

"Is that supposed to be funny?" I asked, defensive.

"Not at all." He decided to turn the tables. "What do you do with yourself, Gaston de Chagny? How do you amuse yourself up there in the world? How do you live?"

"I have a small house on the estate grounds. I keep to myself. I used to spend a lot of time here in Paris; not so much anymore."

"Oh?"

I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "I used to drink–get drunk–and gamble–which I still do–and whore–which I don't do so much anymore."

"So you are a spoiled wealthy boy."

I wanted to get up and beat the hell out of him. "If you like," I shrugged.

"Well? What would you call it?"

I was sure he was baiting me; why? "I had a wife briefly. She's dead." I glared at him. "You have a grandson as handsome as you."

He laughed like a madman at that.

"You're irritating me, Erik; you realize that?"

"I'm sorry about your wife, Gaston, truly. How old is your son?"

"Nearly two. Chretien. He loves everyone. He might even love you."

When Erik spoke again his eyes were soft and kind. It surprised me. "It's good you have him." He nodded and returned to his tale of Mother. What a strange man.

"So, we were in love. Happy. It was understood that we would be together for life. We talked about marriage and babies–I didn't care about any of that, but it was what Christine wanted. It was very…normal, if you can imagine it. Then one day the talk turned to 'going upstairs', as we called it–I don't really remember how the topic arose. Christine had assumed that we would move into the light; I had assumed that we would not. We couldn't agree in that first discussion, and we turned away from it quickly. It was frightening. After that, whenever it came up, the conversation got more heated, until finally we were actually arguing. She went away for a day; the reunion was gut-wrenching. I can still feel the horror of realizing that we were fighting; I could not bear it." Erik drained his glass and poured another. He was wearing his pain like a heavy cloak.

"I was fifty, fifty one at that time," he explained. "I couldn't just erase all that I'd experienced. I couldn't climb out of my cave and pretend that I was like everyone else, and the world would love and welcome me. I was raised like an animal. I was beaten. I was hated. Maybe she thought that her love could wipe all that away; heal me; make me normal. I am not a normal man." He looked at me as if he was daring me to argue the point. I tried hard not to react to what he'd said.

"We couldn't agree. We ignored it, but whenever talk turned to marriage after that, she would smile and play if off, as if it was some joke between us. I didn't notice that at the time, mind you. I've had twenty six years to reflect on every moment…" he admitted. "I knew about the vicomte; she had told me they were childhood friends. I had no reason to doubt her, and I was neither worried nor jealous. Then one day she was quite agitated and confessed that she wanted some time apart. She was worried, she said, about how we would make a life together, and she couldn't think clearly when she was with me. My reaction was a combination of disbelief and terror; she was my world. She promised she loved me, said it would only be for a week or so."

Erik popped out of his chair abruptly. I got the sense that he wanted to pace. "Tea?" he suggested.

"Oh, yes, thank you."

"Do you take it the English way, or do you prefer lemon? Honey?" he called from the kitchen.

"Ah, English, actually." I moved to the kitchen and leaned in the doorway. I recognized that he needed these diversions and breaks to settle himself. It had been a hell of a day for the old man, even without reliving these memories.

"Me too," he agreed. "Pity. The English can even ruin tea. Now, in the Orient, with spices, lemon, honey–that is tea."

"You've been to the Orient?" I must have sounded astonished.

"Oh, yes," he replied mildly, "I've been…many places. Another story for another day, my boy," he chuckled. He handed me my tea and we returned to our seats. He continued.

"Christine was true to her word; she returned in a week. She took up the discussion of living in the light again. 'Erik, this is so very important,' she said. 'If you can just give me this one thing, I swear I'll never ask you for anything again.' I told her I couldn't; if she could only ask me for anything else. She wept; we both wept. I didn't understand; she clung to me, repeating that she loved me. When she was all cried out, she said that she needed more time away. How long? She didn't know. I had to let her go." He was feeling it all over again.

"When she left, I was frantic; I felt I was losing her. Having nothing else, I turned to my music. I knew the music would bring her back. I worked on Don Juan Triumphant round the clock until I passed out from exhaustion; when I awoke I went back to work. Weeks turned to a month; two. I finished Don Juan and no sign of Christine. I heard about the Masked Ball and took my opera to them. Christine was at the ball, with the vicomte. He loved her; I could see it." Erik chuckled bitterly. "I saw plenty…I saw his ring on a chain around her neck. In an instant I went mad with jealousy; I made a scene and frightened her terribly." He paused and sighed. He seemed to be considering whether to continue. "Is this what you wanted to hear?"

I nodded. "I wanted to know about Mother and you."

"Yes, we're coming to the 'Mother' part; patience, my boy," he replied sardonically. "All during rehearsals for Don Juan, I tried to persuade Christine to speak with me. I wrote her pleading notes; tender notes; ugly, jealous notes. She would not see me. The longer her silence endured, the more lunatic I became. I evolved a plan to take the tenor's place at the climax of the opera. If she could sing with me, if I could get her alone, I was convinced that we could make it right. It wasn't as if I took a firm decision to destroy my theater in order to abduct Christine. I never appear without multiple means of escape being laid; things simply unfolded badly. All I wanted to was to have Christine alone to remind her of what we had between us."

"When we arrived here, I begged, I wept. Christine pleaded with me to not make it any harder than it was. At some point I realized that crying would not persuade her; this made me furious. I told her she was like every other faithless woman who cared about nothing but a pretty face and an empty head. I accused her of horrible things." Erik surprised me with a soft smile. "Your mother never put up with any cheek from me; she stood her ground. My accusations hurt her, but when I said that she'd only encouraged me for the help I could give her career, she was infuriated. She said she didn't know me anymore and turned to leave. 'No,' I said, 'you don't walk out on me.' I gripped her arms, too tightly; it only made her angrier."

Erik looked at me apologetically. "It gets a bit disjointed now…"

I nodded. He looked at me a minute longer; I couldn't guess what he was thinking. He sighed again.

"She struggled, she tried to strike me…" He buried his face in his hands briefly. When he looked at me again, he didn't even try to hide his tears. Again he leapt up and began to pace. "I never laid a disrespectful hand on her, do you understand? All the time we were together, I never pressed any advantage, never made the slightest suggestion, never took the least liberty. Never. I adored her, do you hear?" he demanded.

"Yes, yes," I assured him. I didn't feel so comfortable around him anymore. I thought maybe he could be a madman after all. And I was trapped underground with him. Then, he sat down just as suddenly as he had sprung up. His eyes were streaming, but he held my gaze.

"We tussled; it was…stimulating. One moment we were fighting; the next we were…not…fighting. It was not entirely mutual at the outset, but she…changed her mind." Erik glared at me, defensive again. "I do not say this to exonerate myself; I know that I should have exercised more fortitude. I only mean to say that you were not entirely the product of anger and jealousy." He averted his gaze; he seemed very angry, and thoughtful, and ashamed. The moment passed. "At any rate, my...performance, if you will…was insufficient to convince her to abandon her plans with the beautiful boy. We were still arguing when her savior appeared. I bound him and told Christine that he would live if she stayed with me–but, you know how this turned out, if I'm not mistaken."

I nodded.

Erik composed himself instantly; how, I don't know. He stood again. "Right, you got what you came for, I believe. Time to go."

"Wait." I blurted. "Please." I was still trying to absorb what I'd heard. He waited. His cloak was over his arm, and he flicked at it impatiently. I didn't really have any idea how to say what I wanted to say. I went back to the kitchen and fixed us more tea. When I returned he was still standing there with his cloak. I ignored his scowl and handed him his tea.

"Thank you, no; you were just leaving."

"Don't you want to know anything, about Mother?" I was stalling for time. I don't know what more I wanted from him; any questions I had weren't formulated, but I wasn't ready to leave.

Erik softened. "Yes. Was she happy?"

"I think so, yes. My fa–Raoul was very good to her. She never forgot, of course. She left me that entire trunk of things, you know, the list I sent along."

He nodded.

"I think that Raoul took good care of her," I said.

I remembered the photo of Mother I had brought. "Here–this was taken about a year before…" He hesitated for such a long time. I thought he might not accept it; it was as if he didn't want to know. When he looked at her, he gasped; I told you, she stayed beautiful. He handed the picture back to me; he was overcome again.

"No, please keep it," I said. He nodded thanks, unable to speak. It was an uncomfortable few minutes. When he seemed a bit more composed, I found myself getting all puppy-like. "So, I thought perhaps I might bring Chretien sometime."

He shook his head. "No."

I was crushed. "No?"

Erik studied his hands for a moment. He walked to the book case where he'd laid his mask and replaced it. "Go back to your home, Gaston de Chagny. There was nothing for Christine here; there is nothing for you here."

"But you're alone!" I couldn't believe he was just shutting the door on me.

"Yes, I am alone." His eyes said nothing. I don't mean I was expecting a rush of fatherly affection, but…I don't know. I was all he had.

"I won't see you again," I said. Brilliant, Gaston.

"Likely not. Do you attend the opera?"

"Not really. I mean, I have attended…"

"I'll see you if you attend," he replied lightly.

Now it was my turn to be tearful. He ignored it and led me back to the light. At the end of the corridor, he turned. "Right. Through this door and you're home. Thank you for coming, Gaston de Chagny," he smiled.

"If you should change your mind, ever, you need only send word with Aunt Giry, and–"

"Yes. Yes, I know. I will." He knew he wouldn't, but I never stopped hoping he would.


	11. Chapter 11

I rode all the way home after I left Erik. I was numb, and I wanted my own bed. Mignonette was waiting up for me. She sat with my head in her lap and listened to the whole story. She is a good little wife.

I thought so much about Erik; not much about him and Mother. I thought of him down there alone, imagined him puttering about his little kitchen as I'd seen him do. I wondered if it was any different for him now; did he ever think about me? About Chretien? Did he ever feel just one pang of longing, one bit of curiosity? Everything and nothing had changed for me. Home was still home, but I wasn't a Chagny. I had no name to replace it with, who else could I be? Father was still Father; Erik didn't want me. Funny I always felt like an outsider in my family. I felt grief for all I'd lost, or thought I'd lost, but it was only in my mind that anything had really changed. I believed that Mother wanted me to understand about my face when she sent me in search of Erik. I wondered if she'd wanted anything for Erik out of it. Could she have hoped that we'd be some comfort to each other? I think she knew him too well for that.

Maybe Aunt Giry was right that no good could come of it. In some ways, I had more questions than before.

I made some changes. I told Simone we were through. I can never repay Raoul; I can at least leave his wife alone. Besides, I still had Therese. Mignonette, Chretien and I attended the Opera; we took a regular box. Mignonette found a rose in her chair once, and at Christmas, Chretien was surprised with a cuddly monkey. We told him it was from the Opera Ghost, because he was a good little boy. Whenever we came to the Opera after that, Chretien hoped we'd get to see the Opera Ghost.

0-0-0-0

When I was over my initial depression, I went to see Raoul. I told him the Phantom was still alive, and that I'd met him with Aunt Giry's help. His eyes were worried.

"I just wanted to thank you," I said, "and apologize for being so much trouble."

Raoul shook his head, moved. "No trouble, son."

"Must've been quite a shock when you saw me…" I joked, trying to lighten things up.

"No. I knew what to expect."

"Oh." This was a surprise. "You married her anyway?"

Wrong thing to say. "What was I supposed to do, abandon her?" Raoul demanded, incensed.

"No, of course not. Sorry," I mumbled. Didn't I feel like an ass.

"Your Mother didn't lie to me. I had twenty wonderful years with her because I knew enough not to ask anything I didn't want to know the truth of. It's a good rule for a married man to know," he smiled.

I'll never be like Raoul. I told him so.

-0-0-0-0-

My brother came home for Christmas with a pregnant little wife he'd picked up in Aquitaine. He spoke the Languedoc with her; Vicomtesse de Chagny and she couldn't even speak proper French. No matter, I suppose; they were very adorable together. Philippe and I managed a rapprochement. Vivienne–his wife–wanted to 'practice', so she and Philippe kept Chretien when Mignonette and I returned to Paris and the fantastic bathtub for some New Year's nasty. The Comtesse de Chagny was indisposed through most of the holiday; same difficulty as Philippe's wife, only she was still skinny and puking. Thank God for Mignonette's whore's remedies; something was contagious. I convinced Lili over the holiday that it would be best if she let it go about me and Chretien attending her wedding. It really was alright with me.

-0-0-0-0-

Chretien had just turned four, and we were painting a train that I had carved. Well, if you were four it would look like a train. Mignonette answered the door, and Aunt Giry stood there and gave a silent nod. For a second I thought, By God, he's changed his mind–but no. She handed me a box containing the Sonnets, Mother's photograph, Mother's letter to Erik, a lovely diamond ring, and an envelope with Erik's seal affixed.

_Dear Gaston,_

_I'm dead. I've instructed Madame to burn everything, but she feels you may wish to rummage through my junk before it's put to the torch. If such is the case, please feel free to do so. I return to you everything of your mother's in my possession, with the notable exception of my heart, which can be of no possible use to anyone.  
From your listing of the contents of Christine's trunk, I recall a gold ring. You may have guessed it is mine. Given the difference in our ages, I assumed that I would precede your mother in death, and she agreed to return the ring to me in that event. Please honor that commitment and return it with Madame.  
Thank you for your kindness. You have a lovely family. You seem to be a devoted father; sadly, it is a talent I never acquired. If your mother is correct, you and I will meet again; I believe she is mistaken._

_E._

Cantankerous old bastard; he was right, he was no normal man. If I read between the lines, I can see that he tried, but he was just alone too long. I understand why Mother loved him; there was a lot to love in the tiny glimpses of himself that he permitted me, and she saw so much more than I did.

I fetched Erik's ring and accompanied Aunt Giry down to his home. He was there, already in a coffin. She told me that was where he always slept; my father was a ghoul. When I slipped the ring onto his cold finger, I realized he'd never let me touch him, never even shook my hand. I turned to Aunt Giry–never an especially warm woman, that I recall–and said, "Isn't this ridiculous, I feel like a goddamn orphan." She just held me and didn't try to make it alright. I appreciated that.

"Did he ever mention me?" I asked her when I'd recovered.

"He berated me for not telling him about you," she admitted. "He could be quite abusive if the mood seized him." She regarded me for a moment to see how I took that. "It took him some time to get accustomed to the idea of you–during that time, he did not say much at all. He turned garrulous when he told me about the monkey he was making for Chretien, and how pretty Mignonette looked. I think he was pleased that you have them. He wished that Christine could have seen her grandchild. And he admitted that Raoul had raised a good son."

She noticed a speck on his jacket and brushed it off automatically. It was the sort of gesture that a wife would make.

"You loved him too," I said suddenly. She looked at me wordlessly and I left it alone. "Would you like me to help you with all of this?" I offered.

"No…thank you. Is there anything you would like, Gaston?"

"I don't know, his music perhaps?"

She nodded. I left with a well-worn copy of Shakespeare and his sheet-music.

-0-0-0-0-

"Yes..."

I entered Raoul's study and he gave me a surprised smile. He headed to the bar to pour me a cognac and I dug out a cigar. I didn't know how to preface what I had to say, so I just held the ring out to him. "I think this may be yours, or Mother's."

His face confirmed my suspicions; then I saw in his eyes the understanding of what it meant that I could return it to him. "I'm sorry, Gaston. Were you able to be with him?"

"No." I retorted, sharper than I intended. "He would never have permitted that. Aunt Giry had a letter for me, after."

He nodded.

"I'm going to go, Father; I don't have anything else to say right now."

"Yes, alright, Gaston." I felt my father's comforting hand on my back as we walked to the door. "Gaston."

"Yes?"

Father was studying the ring. "I thought I'd give this to Lili." He looked to me for confirmation.

"She would like that," I agreed.

FIN


End file.
